Darkness falls over the illusion of the woman in the black dress,

Her hair short cropped, face dirty, no breath.

She steps into the confessional with nothing to confess.

I watch her black dress trail along the ground.

Her fingers brushing through the flowers with the touch of death.

Losing sight of her I look all around.

There is nothing to find except a black ribbon,

Evidence of my sanity, entrenched in my mind her pretty face etches itself,

I picture her but the thought of her is all but hopeless to abandon.

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