She screams

Grey ash, flecked red
Bedecked, the bride,
in evening's glare, stands.

As the sun dies, so must she,
but she clings, so powerfully,
to these meager threads,
saffron tainted, red rose tips.

And all she asks is,
for the ash to fall,
where it must, for her own sake.

So that he may find his way,
back to his own mind,
plucked away and torn away,
from her loving embrace.

But to no avail, for he is short
of sight, and her sighs fall,
on ears made deaf to her purpose.

She screams her silent pleas,
into the endless void of apathy,
and finds all she can,
in vacant eyes, a life and a lie.