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The Widow’s Lament
By Thomas Miller
In the small hours before the dawn,
A widow weeps, her love long gone.
She clings to a photo, worn and frayed,
Of the life they shared, now decayed.
Her tears fall silent, like autumn rain,
A steady stream of endless pain.
She speaks his name, a whispered plea,
But only the night returns her plea.
The bed they shared now cold and bare,
A space where once love filled the air.
She lies alone, her heart a stone,
In a house that no longer feels like home.
Yet every night, she dreams him near,
His voice a ghost she longs to hear.
But when she wakes, the truth is clear—
He’s gone, and she’s left with only her fear.