Time stills
Clocks Rest
Frozen air lights shallow breath
Toes numb with dread
Resigned to follow
One made of thread
Knuckles clenched
Jaw taut
Committed to the last walk
Such cunning serpentine
He treads her path weaved of vine
Atop a mound of earth she waits
Hands plead when prior would take
No ear to whisper or palm to charm
To her a man can do no harm
When at last she turns her head
He is damned to earth, the final bed
As from her rags flow
A body of echoes.
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