She pressed her hand against the marble, felt its words,
Ran her weathered finger through the crafted names.
Many faces that had long since adventured,
Left for others lingering to bear the pain.

The autumn sun caressed its face and warmed the stone,
She drew it through her skin and let it stay a while.
Her silver head was bowed, her company her own,
To spend a few more moments in her reconcile.

The flowers of the world could not number enough
To brighten up the burden of an ended path,
The petals broke their bonds and crumbled into dust
And left the woman weeping in the aftermath.

And as the overwhelming feelings find their place,
Rested in the fractures of a broken heart,
The tears roll from her eyes and glisten on her face
And once again remind her that she must depart.

She turns and disappears amongst the faceless throng
But unconcerned to why this woman mourns alone.
They'll say, "For many shrines are written for those gone,
So what is one more name etched into waiting stone?"

But pity deep the woman who is fading there,
Staring at the monument that bears his time,
For she has felt a love and lost beyond compare
And now must mourn the cost of it upon the shrine.

Oh pity deep the woman that suffers the strain,
Clawing at the testament that bears another.
For there's no soul on earth that understands the pain,
Or knows the loss condemned upon this grieving mother.