Void

We used to have
uncommon choices.

ball pen-gel pen
rain-winter
red-blue.

My poems never battle
with her novels,
neither her present
with my past.
There, in the shrine
she meditates,
while I muse over
the clouds from the window.
And now,
when darkness intones,
she croons from the urns.
with a scud of whiffs
from the forlorned necropolis.

V@@S...