By Mona Schiller
They bled the sun out,
With spindly knives like crooked hairs,
And caught her ichor in a vase,
Set on the blue altar where it shouts,
So cold and silent on those stairs,
Echoing how she bled for days,
She’ll smile but never shine on you,
And if you look up to the skies,
And go up to her hanging face,
Take her gently as once I did too,
And bury her in the name of christ,
So she’s not alone in endless space,
To sit beside an ashen star,
No light will warm you by her side,
As cold as she is you will be,
Have been, and are,
The sunset is her final rite,
That consigns her to the starry sea.