In the cemetery on the hill, the one that looks down on the town.
Prayers are not for the angry.
Pensive angel, distant, ensouled in grey stone, too tired to weep.
I feel like her, among these people.
The sky is red and boiling and lurid, August fire making all malevolent.
The last flicker of love smothered by fear.
Me and the dead, we look down, stand above, stand out and apart.
I remember once, a lover holding my hand.
I remember, but it gets harder everyday.