Her hair, a mess of golden weave,
It trailed behind her wake.
Her footsteps battled its reprieve,
At each stride she'd forsake.
A heart empty of hesitation,
Beat until its valves were raw,
Each breath, a need for tournication,
She sought her love through soul and maw.
Alas, she found him; tangled so.
A knife resting in his breast.
He'd killed himself of love and woe,
For the pity; the unrest.
Again, her feet took perturbed flight,
To bring her to the banks.
She sang her sorrow to the night,
To the solemn forest flanks.
Her hope a tattered span of wing,
She fought the coming cold.
She plunged, letting the silence ring;
With an endless hail of gold.