Anathema
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The Echo of Her Fading Footsteps,
Snip away at His Mind's Thread,
Looking out the Window in His Hands,
This Silence, He has come to Dread,
Disallowed of His Worship.
His Hands tied to Iron Posts,
Turned away from His Parish,
He Whispers only to Ghosts,
He Wonders if She's Smiling,
If the Sky is Bright where She is,
As Caliginous as His World is,
He Hopes Her's is Filled with Bliss,
He Hopes She might Remember Him,
In a Timid but Fond Recollection,
When Water Falls from the Sky,
Or in Sunlight's First Mention....
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