The fractures of his face wept, broke, withered. Ash,
anguishing for his own, curling flecks of half.
And the curtains close.
The indent in her half, cherry blossoms scent.
Those with no weaknesses have nothing to lose
and nothing to save.
A shy glance at an old frame brought him courage.
Her golden halo below his fourth knuckle,
her angelic ghost.
He picked up his speech and headed to the door.
Her Moses cradle glided down the aisle.
‘My poor darling girl,
my wife.’ And so the walls came fluttering down.
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