her grave, carrying tulips,
speaking to her in tender tones
with eyes moist as morning dew.
This sickening newly found infatuation
a far cry from when she breathed
when he assaulted her with scornful words,
there was none of this adoration.
But she never existed at all,
the invention of a guilty mind
as he kisses her framed photograph
hanging as if gallows on the wall.
He pictures a modern Helen of Troy
yet this is an easy, maudlin love
and now she's gone he's convinced
the clear sorrow in her eyes...was joy.