The Widow
She saw herself alone
Cast out in weary abandonment.
Upon the sweet bosom of dawn;
Lied there, a dream of her contentment.
The thicket of pain’s cruelty,
Could only have been revealed for so few.
Humble sorrow touches her as she turns to night;
Once more to seek something new
She may have created love
In her thrown out admiration
Whatever pleasured her past,
Has sunken into silent desperation.
She knows these things to pass
Confronting her tearful sighs.
For there lies her broken lover,
As she gazes willingly into his failing eyes.
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