🕯️ The Grave-Watcher’s Lament

Beneath the moon’s unblinking eye, Where restless winds in shadows sigh, A woman stands above her stone— A soul unstitched, yet not alone. Her grave lies cold beneath her feet, Where earth and afterworlds both meet; The Reaper lingers, dusk-enthroned, His scythe with dying starlight honed. She feels the pull of dust and doom, Yet rises ghostlike from the gloom; For sorrow forged her spirit’s seam— A waking echo in a dream. Around her, roses wilt to rust, Like whispered vows returned to dust; Yet still she watches, pale and wise, With Waterhouse-like haunted eyes. Though death stands cloaked in sable dread, And fate keeps vigil with the dead, She holds her heart against the night— A fragile flame, but fiercely bright. So let the Reaper pace and roam; Her courage makes the darkness home. For even in despair’s embrace, A broken soul may rise with grace.