By morn, my son returns. His memory fragmentary. In the thickest of nights, he leaves. Hypnotized. To the depths of the wilderness, lured by a melody. I worry about the strange emptiness in his eyes. “I am at ease in the arms of my beloved,” he assures me. My son and his wife, their fates always intertwined. But who embraces my son? His beloved is in the cemetery. It’s been many moons since my son’s wife has died.
Rachel's Floetry 