Gone

He puffs in the nightly brume His noctambulous proclivity He calls it, a force of habit Something automatic Tonight is especially morbid Atrabilious even As he hunches gaunt Over her headstone That has grown verdant Of many a night waxed lachrymose The midnight wind is severe A morbid creak fills his ears He calls it his familiar His body enervated A chiliad of nights and tears Have taken their toll Gaunt from endless prayers Then an icy apparition so clear A familiar, sum of his fears, Appears, standing in the midnight air An icy depth and an icy glare his familiar A formication forms in his chest As usual no words exchanged The wind blows the mist away And soft rain begins to fall And the owl begins to howl She is gone, she is gone!