The gates are closed,
6 months ago
the hinges all but rusted, thigh high weeds grow where once flowers flourished. I wander the over grown paths in my mourning clothes, damp dew gathering on it’s dark crêpe edges as it sweeps through my memories.. My grief is reflected in the water I pass, the reflection is unknown to me, the pain erasing my once familiar lines, and replacing them with something much harsher. The air hangs heavy and silent…. too silent. A wilted rose escapes from my hand, I can no longer pick it up.
