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.