Shrouded

Your sorrow becomes
our shroud. So soft

a word for something
that feels like wounds,

like shredding, as if
what’s left of us

has shrunk to a child
costumed for play

in mummy wrappings,
or zombie rags,

half dead, half alive,
wordless and hurt;

a night’s revenant,
a grey shadow

blotting out color,
wincing as dawn

approaches. The winds
weep gustily

as they blow onward
and inland. Each

soft sound a lash. Each
breath a damp ache,

a throb, a struggle.
The canopy

of grey clouds covers
miles like heavy

brocade. Diminished,
the fury ebbs

and fades in its own
time. Fragments fall

from the sky like fists,
like lost treasures,

forgotten wonders.
It’s time. A rock

sits perfectly still
on the edge of

a precipice, mute,
crevices guiding

dewdrops downward,
carving a path through

the open air

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