:: What's Left To Mourn ::
by PJ Kempen

She pressed her cheek against the silken cloth

Draped over her dark waving hair.

The dim evening light sank in the room like dust.

Cool Shadows danced on her skin.

Still and silent she sat in her father's vacant, unmade bed

Mourning the man who died long ago

Hoping she managed to ease the pain

Of an ending which lingered too long.

George Pratt, Tiffany, 2012