The young widow weeps, inconsolate:
Her sobs erupting in great geysers of pain
As she gently strokes and caresses
The still breast of her beloved within the casket;
Her eyes are tortured abysses,
Dazed, disbelieving, and lost,
And her final words to him bear a pleading quality;
There is no solace to be found
In the presence of family, of friends,
No amount of food, however lovingly prepared, can bring comfort;
Though she may will it so
With every fiber of her being
There can be no returning to yesterday,
And their future is no more;
Only the immediacy of agony,
And the great, bloodied wound that was once her heart remains.