Monday, April 18, 2005
She died this morning,
breath dissipating
in the wind of your wake.
Her face ashen
against this morning’s blanket.

She passed
with only one wish;
a glass of champagne
toasted to a sky
filled with light.
That was all.

And even in her death
you spite her.
No tears fall;
no mourning of her passing.
 
This template is called "shattered pieces of my soul", a modification of "The Light : The Sound". (c) 2005 Daniel Josph Xhan. Use and modify at your own discretion.