Wistful Poem by Lisa Doesburg

In her world of in between,
another life of hers, she dreams.
This place, herein, not life, but sin,
She clings to dreams that were.

This shade of grey where she exists,
this other world, a dark abyss,
she's made to hear eternally,
the echoes of the past.

He comes each day, to see her grave,
her touch, her voice, he sadly craves.
Her ghostly touch, unfelt, unseen,
his tears fall in the dust.

Her silent tears, unheeded, fall.
Her soft caress, not felt at all.
This living hell she's forced to dwell,
decidedly deserved.

As he knelt in deep lament,
his crying stopped, his sorrow spent,
a feather touch, a chilling kiss,
a message from the grave.

That wistful touch upon his cheek
renewed, unguarded, he did weep.
As soft as petals in the wind,
she made her presence known.