Her foggy tendrils whirl and fade
as she drifts through a grey garden.
Gossamer fingers, barely there,
caress familiar stone.
A slender shapely vapor,
she haunts this marble orchard,
waiting for a rose or blossom
to be set upon her tomb.
In her silvery realm,
she has forgotten time.
No soul still lives that knows her name.
Her headstone, worn smooth, nameless.
A languid breeze plays on her
tresses, finespun wisps of mist,
offering only dried leaves
to her resting place.

01/17/2008

Author's Note: A repost from a while back.

Posted on 01/17/2008
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