songbird // fleetwood mac
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She lays
arms folded across her chest,
in a cave of
mahogany.
Still as a board,
eyes shut,
the last trace of air
on her lips.
A veil covers
her face with lace,
her unblemished,
porcelain face,
only a few shades lighter
than the white dress.
The mass is dressed in black,
a cousin once removed
presses softly
on the keys of a piano.
It's the only sound
that can be heard
other than
tears hitting the
pews.
He stands
over her corpse,
one hand adorning
her lifeless face,
the other clenched
around her dead hand.
"I'll love you
forever, Kathyrin.
I promise."
YOU ARE READING
twelve tracks
Poetry“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche /// (c) mockingjayde 2013 (c) respective artists and musicians.
