She rests her hand on the pale of his head,
Fingers nestled among the strands of grey.
Where are you now but among the dead?

When the heart stops pumping the Venetian red,
What happens to the soul each day?
She rests her hand on the pale of his head.

Thoughts like spiders cast webs of thread,
Of remorse and regret, so she kneels to pray.
Where are you now but among the dead?

And then appears a gentle air overhead,
She wonders if it’s him, if it could be what they say.
She rests her hand on the pale of his head.

The room expands yet she shrinks with dread,
Suffocating with grief that cannot fade.
Where are you now but among the dead?

She’s consumed by regret for things she’d said.
But it’s too late now-- he’s gone away,
His body outstretched on the sterile bed.
Where are you now but among the dead?