Gone

Running, heart pounding, Wingtips splashing in the muddy gravel,
Away from the service on a stormy day, after one last embrace with the closed casket.
Not metaphoric to any disposition that swims through our oceans; just a girl in a casket.
Graced by Heaven, a living sky; and she wasn't mine per say, nor another's,
But as I entered those doors, I was graced with the impact of a hundred pairs of invisible arms,
Sending chills down my spine. And each angel cried.
Because she wasn't a metaphor, she was real.
Running, searching for a taste as sweet as her,
But nothing is as sweet as her, she's gone.