For F
deep in death she lies within so cold
with the flesh I’ve so much raved about;
where time and all its majesties old
she lies, with beauty there and life without.
and i, in solemn silence, grieve
as thoughts meander in waves of sighs;
remembering, yet refusing to believe
that life has left her once-luminous eyes.
deep in slumber she reposes and rests,
free from the fetters of fickle fate;
and the form that once felt warm caress,
have naught but only worms to sate.
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