The feel of the fall of your hair
the arms meant to hold you.
The fall through the years,
of bitter, swaying fears.
The chimes of melancholy laughter,
the strikes, echoes through you.
The feel of what caught her;
forever precious broken daughter.
The smell of smoky morning dew,
the moisture seeping through you.
The platitudes of the shallow few,
ringing the soft and untrue.
The feel of what hides in a corner
trace of what is behind you.
The fall of the mask that bore her,
of the nameless mourner.
©2015 – Stewart Tunnicliff