Who untie bitter beads like a fall?
Who carries procession that beats a pall?
Who wakes at the prime crows?
And lies late, heavy with sorrows

. . .

Studying the room as if it were a trade
Gravely peering the emptiness, shadowed like Hade
Mosquitoes winging the space, stepping by
To croon to the prey of insomnia
She reached out to feel a sable form
But alas!
Can I ever find someone from his class?
Nostalgic gaze into the pitch distance
As memories evoke without mediums
Alive in frames, frozen in times, devoid of stance.

Cranium crashed with painful reminisce in multitude
Hope bellied by the predators of solitude
None except an old and tattered pillow
To drought the fall of ever-trickling tears
Of a widow.