Our Lady's Grave (And The Dust That Settles On Her Bones)
Letters For Saints
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The missing lace upon her sleeve,
inspires fear among her thieves.
Her painted toes, and drawn up knees -
the words she wrote, she'd like to be.
She'll pass the gate, and linger there,
the summer sweet upon the her hair.
And no one knows, what she will be;
for all things go
sobriety.
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The morning's dew upon her dress,
she'll wake up to her servants mess.
Out in the yard, across the way,
she will remain within her grave.
She's finally home.