She walks a little slowly now, neither
left nor right, she stumbles there alone and
needs a place to lay down, but no rest comes
on a road of no moss, just broken bones
that line the pathway, and old, splintered teeth;
she tried not to look, but his hand was so cold
when she touched it, she remembered his grip
she would hold, as they walked, as they searched
for the road that she wanted; well now here
it is, though it's nothing like glory, a bit
more than she asked, and his warm hand is gone.
Is there no place she can rest? how does one
finish a story, or replace all those pages
with no chance left of love...
She has nothing to write for, no meaning transcribed
on this bone-laden road, undisguised.