A Murder of Crows

In a gauzy dusk pierced by the screech of a murder of crows stray petals from funeral swags swirl in icy gusts scattering them across the headstones;
With lips chapped raw, bluish feet upon the granite, I trample bruised petals and dead leaves on your sepulcher.
Naked branches rattle a disjointed rhythm and crows cackle, all oilslick wings and marble eyes glinting in a shaft of moonlight as the edges of a vindictive smile curl upon Luna’s spectral face.
With every crack and chap of salty lips every stream of blood streaking my nightshirt clotting in the crevices of the engraving; every crimson blotch upon scentless petals blown over from a spray that was not even yours sends your poison seeping through cracks in the stone through six feet of packed earth to its source in a pine box.
When even shadows tremble in the chill and dead leaves are embalmed with frost is when I finally leave the sepulcher and your memory to the crows.