Pavane

Within my shrine of despair,

Icons hang of you there.

Adorned by hues sage and gay,

They effuse potently shared distant days.

Days having retreated from memory since,

I try to revive them with a grimace, a wince.

The lucid candle that once proudly shone,

Flounders listlessly now, absent its home.

Still in ritual I attend to this shrine

If solely it must be to pass trepid time.

Alternatives—none have yet been found

For one whose candle has extinguished

Without a sound.

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