She is alive like the spring,
yet parts of her have passed on to winter's embrace.
Parts that I knew as my own.
They now lie in the dark and still corner of my heart.
A place of perpetual mourning. Barely breathing.
A grave to the lost, an ode to the living.
The lone mourner of her former name.
A baby with eyes of blue,
washed in pink.
Lullaby to the beat of my heart, soothed by tears that fall hollow.
My only comfort is also my undoing.
The womb of my being is longing to conceive closure,
yet, it eludes me.
I chase after the elusive dream of finality.
Torn open. The gaping wound of my heart a penance.
Parts of me wear black, as I burn all things white.
The swell of her presence still remains, though barren am I.
What once was has given birth to what beholds me.
Caught in a prison of familiar flesh and an infant's cries.
Months give way to years,
I come to pay my respects. Still.
No tender grass to blanket the graveside in my heart,
a promise of healing, complete.
Dirt always remains, fresh and crumbled.
When growth dares to root,
I must come for another burial.
Dig my hands deep, feel the cool of the earth.
Solace comes in remembering, the grave is empty.
She lives.
Yet, why do I grieve the living so?
A double-edged sword, to see her, to not.
A pale memory never lived.
The child that would have been mine.
Lost to a choice. My own.
Lost to her Mother. Me.
Copyright © 2003 Skye Hardwick - Do not use without permission
