A worn photograph of
your dark-eyed mystery,
captivating me through
time's passage,
Death mightily tried,
it raged, as it
could not contain you.

I've read your
Gothic writing-
shadows and spirits,
in an endless night's
moonlit melancholy.

The bells, funerary bells,
not a dirge,
but a devotion of
your romantic heart's triumph,
after forty years of
such agonized events.

I recite your love poems
in whispered words,
of dream moments of passion,
my cherish is not lost,
you cannot leave-