Winter’s morning finds us here,
As though two children bent in prayer.
Sorrow wafts in, gingerly saunters,
Yet heaves itself upon hunched shoulders.
Silence, a merciless banshee between us,
Torments our souls with her phantasmal wails.
Scorched and crumbling fragments of truth,
Molded themselves into something new.
Surreptitiously, seeing one’s eye averted,
You locked us in this musty bubble.
Somehow through the walls you built,
Her fragrance still filled my head.