The One In Black Cape
Rumors have it that you are cold and stealthy. With thy frail, frosty hands you stole what you did not give.
But why are you so insensitive? They say you do not feel a touch, no surprise then that you did not feel my pain when I suffered her loss.
Some say wherever she went, I went. You watched and saw that a love as pure would not have ended, and so you vented.
You robbed me of her touch. You envious spectator of happiness, roaming with your winged black cape, like dew you clouded the dawn of my day.
A mother's ashen matter is now cocooned in earth six beneath because you were impatient, thinking your time is more important.
She was too young to go, at 23 years or so, but no, you could not wait to know, to know if I was old enough for her to go.
You stole a life. A mother. A youth.
And now I vent.