Death,
the bright moonlight shining down on a gravestone.
Poking out of the dry ground,
Just like a broken bone protruding through soft skin.
The smell of death in the air.
Whispering words that are too quiet to hear.
All is still,
except for the small, glasslike tear,
slowly rolling down her eye.
Like a boulder on a hill
She weeps for her father
a soul that won’t come back.
He is there,
she can’t see him
But he is there
And he will always be
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