The grey stone - a work in progress

Mar 11, 2008 - 09:13 AM PST

Drip, drip
Dripping
down her face
eyes glazed and bloodshot
red swollen cheeks
visibly trembling
eyes upon her from every angle

They watched her, as they would a car accident,
peeling their gaze away for mere seconds
only if absolutely needed

An empty shell
no hope to hide
withdrawn,
inside herself

wait, wait
waiting
for the pain to subside
numbness
to set in

Together they were whole
today she is incomplete

An us no longer,
An I alone,
He was gone.
She sat in front, alone.

Fresh green grass,
still wet with dew
lay at her feet.

She sat upon an old white rickety garden chair,
strongly resembling the chairs from her own wedding,
in front, alone.

She tuned him out,
the graying old man speaking aloud.
He spoke with an air of knowledge.
A calm and controlled manner,
but she couldn't focus on his words,
but rather at what he gestured at
laying at his feet.

A freshly turned pile of dirt.
A small cold grey stone.