Classic Poem

Upon an arched sarcophagus of pain
Are figures painted in arrested embraces
With outlines so light we must bend close to see
Old loves almost merging to one tone
Of pale regret that hold
The inner glisten of past weeping.
Our lips cling and our breath winds to a hand
With touch like summer mist
Blending the arrested figures upon the arched sarcophagus of pain.