A poem
Upon a splintered stone two names were scrawled
at dusk, as chilling winds of mourning called,
and remnants of a haunted evening swelled
where demons of the fading dusk had dwelled.
Night terrors sweat the fleece of counted sheep
that now caress the edge of tortured sleep.
Black shadows stretching longer, curve and blend,
to splinter into shards below the bend.