The chapel near the river, the one with weathered walls and rusty gate that creeks when the blue wind blows,

That's where you said we'll meet by the dawn.

Meadow by the cemetery has lost the trail, now that there's no trampling on the weed.

The impatient tapping feet has gone all quite, the raven tiptoeing around the dense longing in the air.

There on the bell tower, lies the dried roses from our first kiss, the white veil, torn, in despair.

That's where you said, we'll meet, that's where i wait.
© pensive nib