A winged companion takes flight near to me,
Joyful streak of crimson light, swift of form.
Yet, clouds of weeping blind, I cannot see
Heaven’s messenger praying out the storm.
Shivering under death’s torn and stained cloak,
I search for the places my lost loved ones hide,
Not in photographs, letters my tears soak,
Or cob-webbed rooms where memories abide.
Death, a hooded stranger, came unwelcome
To our humble, safe house of simple dreams
And stranded me in a painful, loathsome
State, a garment split apart at the seams.
Above a proverb writes with velvet wings,
“Goodness, truth, and beauty, think on these things.”