IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
A poem
Crumbled dust of memories
etched upon a stone, in grey,
recording sadness by degrees,
nothing more that one can say.
Last rites cannot be unspoken
by an iron will within,
vows that will remain unbroken,
someone outside looking in.
Words of sadness, one lone tear
for a lost soul all alone.
All that’s left behind, I fear,
just an epitaph on stone.
The painting slowly fades to blue,
an artist merely passing through.