His hands were red like cherry juice that dripped in late December
The last thing he said to her he now could not remember
A lipstick stain remained on a fragment of a wine glass
Swept under a twill rug, reminiscent of time passed
She was a Marigold, tinged with a heavy glow
He was winter cold, for she was unable to grow
She was far too beautiful for this world or the next
He lost her a lifetime ago, although he won't confess
Sick, the voices told him to do it
Surrendering to them just to get it through quick
Now and then he sees her in the meadow by their home
He goes to her and feels her breath, but he's standing all alone
Seeking a reminder in the coolness of the air
Digging up the bones of something that was never there
His reflection, the pain, a life that had been fled
For she was always just another voice in his head
-DC-
An aura of whipsers
