Tombs -

The day I fell from grace

And words lose power evermore

«You once fancied this space»

I gesture to the floor

This is your home

Obliged to your seclusion

I pictured you in positions plenty

Mouth agape

In your greatest escape

And I was your perfect little metaphor

Somehow I’m sure

I’ll be buried here, in the written word before me

An author’s final story

This is your home

Where tombs house the dead alone

(Alone)

The hand that fails the wrist

Can’t let the body do its work

And should that hand become the fist

Fill it with a quill, it does the trick

That’s what you said to me

In our pasts tense