Lara

We look at what remains, carried to us by ferry, a life she disdained, can she hear our groans, full of useless levies, it would turn her bones, thank those blessed days, neither warm nor easy, when a life burned flame, the manner of her tone, flowed on other tributaries, it won't leave us alone, more a silken trail, spun on a wooden rosary, from her morning frame, a promise to condone, every generous actuary money given not a loan, as we catch the train, across the morning estuary, she’d never contemplate, our face of misery.