Deliver Her Unto Me

Fields of stone angels,
depictions of divine sorrow,
stained with wetness,
cracked and crumbling,
aged terribly and unkept,
shake beneath my hand
and weep into grave soil.
She went too soon.
She was just a child.
She peers into the broken glass
and her reflection is empty.
Deliver her unto me.
She was just a child.
Stripped of her rosy complexion,
she swallows decay,
catches it on her tongue
the way she caught winter flakes.
Her once curiously large eyes
now sink deep into her skull.
Flowers wilt and are replaced
as the years pass her by.
She was just a child.
Her flowers are wilted
and as the grey skies
of an oncoming winter
dust her with the first snow,
no one will replace them.
Deliver her unto me.
She was just a child.