Hermione Femalton

That Day

The sun is bright
in the decieving sky,
And the birds are singing
As the flowers cry.

Within the wood,
Made by hand.
You are lying
While I still stand.

My dress is heavy,
And thick with lace,
my veil is brushing
Against my face.

The breeze is soft;
A butterfly's wing,
But god only knows
What the furure'll bring.

They carried him gently,
out of the door;
Their faces are solemn,
Though they've done it before.

Walk slow, walk slow,
'Cause it won't be true,
'Till the words are uttered
And I've lost you.


March 2009

Poem Submitted: Thursday, March 5, 2009

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