I watched his body lay still in the casket. He looked as if he could still take a breath, surrounded
by blue satin. I summoned my hand to touch his arm. Hard as stone. Fingers fused together.
His body is just a reminder he was alive. Saddened by the absence of his spirit, where has he
Nothing will grow but sorrow for the spirit.
The lost fruit
On the vine
Dawn Watts creates poetry and prose. She has been published in Serotonin, Stone of Madness Press, Tealight Press, PocketFire Presents, Mixed Mag, Melbourne Culture Corner and Ligeia. She lives in Chester Pennsylvania and can be found on Twitter at @wattswritten.