A gentle spewing of tender words of comfort
Deaf ears
the only ones to hear the murmurs of forgotten mourners
Face of an obsidian column
sheathed in flesh as yeilding
cloaked in desolations dew
dripping slowly
from eyes of garnet hue
wary of all
for nothing seems true
so the pen carves paper
like knives for you
and the parchment shards
pierce your soul through
each with the words that you dread to hear
so we hang between the lines
of what we'll compensate for
A flotilla of rafts drifting farther from shore
never suspecting that this was in store
despite all the tales and all the lost lore
noone could have ever felt this before
as though realities rent
and the walls torn down
as we commit our dear friend
to the cold ground.

For Atalanta,
And all the others we have lost.