the lark

i handed her a goat.
she placed it directly inside her throat.
i read the lovely poems she often wrote,
falling softly on my knees.
the summer air blew past carried on a steady breeze
and i heard her curse,
shifted myself into a full reverse.
she was always in high demand;
i saw her cracking open an empty hand,
bits and pieces starting to fall.
i felt myself completely thaw.
an intention was newly painted on her wall;
little bricks of iron and polished brass
filled with tears and laughter of finely spun glass;
it felt like magic was stirring the air.
i went looking for it everywhere.
people running came streaming in;
she started to grin.
there was a burning candle sitting on the floor
i saw it shrinking and asked for one more.
she tried a new technique
it faded disastrously within a week
and became a blend of blond and dark;
i found myself on a chair in her private park
looking toward the sky where i finally saw the lark
still bravely singing she hardly ever cried:
she shed a single tear the moment before she died,
leaving a simple design scribbled on my head.
i couldn't read her message but i understood what was said.