As a silence settles over stones,
powdering the widow with epitaphs,
bleaching a coat of ash…
she goes cold Finch.
Descend to desecrate the dead,
the here and now, a grey rehearsal,
where the air tastes of lime,
and old grimstone.
Carved in deep, desperate grooves,
the silence stands as a statue of grief,
until the wind shifts and the ash,
begins to settle.
Powdering the widow with epitaphs,
and snow crones raining piss down,
interrupting the sanctity of the lost,
she goes cold Finch.
