Francis Ernley Walrond
The gray of the morning
Creeps in the room like fear.
It is growing lighter,
But I sit crouched and shivering.
I dare not look at the bed,
Lest I laugh --
Or curse God.
How does it happen?
Yesterday my wife,
And now -- a strange thing --
Anything -- nothing.
A body without breath,
Arms without warmth,
Lips without kisses.
'Eve' was her name,
And the strangest part is
That I want to call -- 'Eve,
Come and look at this thing
That lies on your bed
And looks so like you.'
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Comments about this poem (Eve by Francis Ernley Walrond )
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