Widowhood

I lie beneath the white tombstone

And cry for help to the unknown.

None one can feel so all alone

The pain I bear is all my own

One felt within my every bone

With aching throat I spew a moan

A wailing sound, a monotone.

There’s no manual for widowhood.

Most days I wish that someone could

Tell me what to wear, and if I should,

Dress in black, or is any color good.

If I’m doing it wrong, I wish one would,

Just observe and tell me where I stood.

In my unexplored, evolving widowhood.