The Last Visit

And he knelt at the graveside clawing at the crimson dirt

Was misery ever so wretched? Or silence so gnawing?

The earth as thirsty and fruitless as his soul without her

The tender roses dried up, their pinks a brittle unloved russet

And he spoke, demanding his answers from them

Words uttered, a singsong mantra, a rhyme for the knowing

Those wise ancients shrouded by the dark glare of mountains

Surely they knew of ardor and boyish endeavors

Beaten shabby by the Eastern sun, licking cracked lips

His tears wetted each word with their salted truths

Coloured beads in his wrenched hands gesture to nobody

Without her he would join them, slip under the cool red soil

Serene where bitter winds and searing suns cannot touch him

She would visit him there at least, touch his name and weep for him

The last visit.

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