Vines.

Vines twining like a corpse,
in the eve of its passing.
The gravestone will be read,
and have your name inscribed.

The grass is its cover,
for it will have none other.
Due to your death,
the sun will sweep brightly.

Rain will hold off so,
because you have changed.
When you flew to the other place,
on wings of hardened stone.

Mourners will try verily,
to blacken their tears.
But they will be in agony,
because they cannot cry for you.

Ever since you turned-
we saw the deceit on your back.
Your arms may flail,
but she you will not find.

Dissapointment shall ebb,
from the mounds of autumn.
Because, it will be assured:
my face instead.

I will be there crouching,
with my shoes on wrong.
I'll remember all the memories,
even when you have forgot.