By Grace Advent
Eternity
the slam of a door
then his bags were packed hastily, room left for error
I gathered and mourned
although I never liked the color black
this is all that remains now
a memory channeled through my brush
all that stands in his wake
is what he left for me
perhaps I was meant to be
self-depracating
solitudinal
alone
back to the way I began
the way I will end
the way I will be for eternity
