A dying art

I regarded Sun as she pulled on
her cloak of blue, grieving tangerine.
The bloodstained tears she shed
soaked morning horizons miserable.
Oh darling, the air tasted bitter
with defeat when I buried you.

I let our ghosts collect themselves,
strengthening their spinal chords.
I serenaded you into peace with marine
funeral melodies, following tradition.
Huddles of ancestral corpses sobbed
saltiness onto my wounds.
I can heal, I promise.
I promised.

I stumbled away with night at my back,
he handed me a tissue every now and then.
With hands held high, I summoned courage.
The Red Sea cascaded downwards.
Hands by my sides I'm walking away,
footprints chased by rolling tides.
Living is becoming a dying art.