The weight of our loss drags behind us, while the memory clings on. We trawl through the atmosphere as we weep, as we walk. The black feather dips sadly to the clop of the horses hooves. The tar dipped carriage ever squeaking in the cold of the morning. The air catches our breath and freezes it, as if time itself halted for this moment. Give us a little more time to catch our pain and absorb it, instead of letting it wreck havoc in our lives.
The cold November morning was glazed with frost.
We lowered a black box into the ground, and then covered it.
Let Imagination Possess A Pen, And What Results Will Be Beautiful
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