In The Valley of Penumbra

Point of day where flesh pauses,
stretches leather-flat:
all is whist, sunlight fades.

In the Valley of Penumbra
my lips unfurl like a fetus
struggling in the womb.

Your sepulcher swells into ashen
skies---I am alone in this bone-yard
as despondency permeates the air.

I cannot go back, my eyes are
not bright, but draped in rue,
blood-filled and glutted.

And pallid will fingers trench
the soil, scratch at the copse,
splintering, plead your return.

As if the sun had begun it's climb
instead of ending it, as if this was
the first breath of morning,
instead of your demise.

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