cloud without wind
encompass them—
they leapt too late, or too early
for the last aurora, baptise their
brief and tragic passing in your
soft columns, make them
light as two small moonstones—
your silence makes haze of grief;
be their third hand holding hope
to closing eyes—their way will
be the tempest, yet now be
departing shadows,
passing showers,
resolving chimes.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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