The sweetest flesh
Falls to earth,
The crows of distrust tear at the
Corpse,
Spilling sweet scented petals,
The bones of a fairy-tale dream lie
Scattered and bleached under the glare of
Real.
Women, mothers and sisters, weep for the dead,
In truth, for themselves,
Men, with no clue, watch in solemn ignorance incapable of
Wondering,
Bitter hearts hide, disguised as saddened looks,
And hopelessly wait for rescue.
This death arrives often,
Filling haciendas, once flush with orchards, with broken,
Dry, rotting limbs,
Time does not heal,
No,
It smothers.
G. M. Goodwin
November 16, 2013
Playing Fair and Being Kind 
Oh, man. That was a hard time. Your words and images perfectly capture it.
A really good friend whom I admire was going through a breakup back then. She was devastated. She survived and we have talked about this state of grief in the moment. All is dark, dead, over.