Deserted

When the red sun sets
over frustrated clay
fields, the moon,
colored as a bloodshot
eye in the midst of
a drunken morning,
peeks above the
barren grounds to
empty night skies.
The burned-dust
refuse slowly
pans and diffuses
and as I sit and
look past the
grounds, I see
remains, picked
clean, left by
rich, fattened crows.
Final prayers
make her two hands,
between them, ends flap.
A single page of her
favorite tasteless,
fated romance
ripped out, torn. A
pitifully weak grip.
Her punched ticket to
the depths of Hell.