Is this the end – fresh flowers in a vase,
a gloom filled room of tarnished memories?
Is that her soul that’s carried with the breeze
of fragrant lilac, lingering for days?
An open window and a bluish haze,
like artists brush strokes forming eulogies
on famous paintings hung in galleries,
mean love is gone – a sun without its rays.
Her memory haunts him though her ghost had flown
to higher planes, unto another sphere
beyond the knowledge of mere mortal man.
An emptiness unlike he’s ever known
consumes him now, although he has no fear
of what’s decreed within the Master Plan.
(after the painting by Marc Chagall.)