It's Still Life

An Unscented Rose

She stood
on the hill
alone
on the cliff’s ridge,
seeing only bleakness
in the sun
in the sea, blue
washed curtained sky.

Gone.
Done
when his carriage
was drawn
and broken.
His journey
blackened into descent.

His onyx-black coffin,
a procession
with those unscented roses.
Why, too, did their
fragrance escape.

Where she once stood
where the sun settled
into night’s ruins,
where stones throw
themselves from cliffs,
where she never
saw the quiet
of another daybreak.

The silk of her skirts
entangled
in her legs,
and as she fell no one
deciphered her
silent plunge.

Only a tangle of black
thick hair
caught the overhang
of a branch,
outstretched in the wind
like a gliding snake.

dVerse Goes Gothic   © Misky 2020 Image “Funeral at the Church with a Tower” from WikiArt. Public Domain cc:00