Though I am alive, <br />merely as a whisper in virgin dawns, <br />or a sigh while half-asleep <br />on days the rains came <br /> <br />where angels flew, <br />though we less aware- <br />who were perched <br />upon the winter wind, <br />upon the frozen trees, <br />upon our words, <br /> <br />only now that I am dreaming <br />far beneath my winter tomb, <br />do I see angels entertain <br /> <br />sadness wears a cloak <br />and watches over: <br />the course of our lives <br />the events of our nights- <br />the destination of our hearts <br /> <br />who, for the thief that he has been <br />for centuries <br />made Marigold cry, <br />and it distressed me so <br />to see her weep- <br />though she knew not of my fingertips <br />upon her golden hair <br /> <br />Though I am alive, still <br /> <br />where angels fly <br />softly over my grave, <br />Marigold has grown so in age- <br />though she knows not of my caress <br />upon her withering face, <br />and it saddens me so<br /><br />Amberlee Carter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/marigold/
