Snow Falls

She's dead.

She's really dead.

She was a shining darkness,
The white raven,
The solemn salvation,
Taken from life in this time of hatred,
Like so many helpless prisoners.

In her wake, yet never to wake again,
Dressed elegantly in the slender black dress,
She never got to appreciate.

Her service, a futile requiem,
She was never a religious woman.
But a slave to her introspective ways.

Her face, snow white yet full of darkness,
Barely paler than was in its livelihood,
Never to brighten another's again.

She was one, who could light up a face,
Yet forever in mystery, in how to light up her own.

Rain falls mercilessly in the cemetery's sardonic green grass,
Littered with the loss of lovers and the unfortunate or avenged.

She would not wish to be laid here, among those she helped, of course,
She would not think herself worthy, yet she be in my eyes worthiest of them all.