A widow

It is an unforgiving venom of the soul, which pervades, like an infamous malady of corrupt disinhibition, the mold of my ruminations and the ensuing ebb of blackening emotion. They shall call it what they must, an arrest of illness, or perhaps the peculiar idiosyncracy of uncommon habit, and yet, I only live with such profound sorrow and solitude, because my husband has died. It is not solely the horrible truth, that his vessel, is but a cold denizen of the sepulchre, which plagues me, with the shadow of woe, but rather it is our chamber window. Every morning upon my wake, alack, I find that in the portrait of our window, he stands idle in the costume of pristine health. I call out to him, but it is as futile as bargaining with Death, and yet as I find my way to the outdoors, there is nothing to betray, even a slender vestige of his presence. I ask the neighbors, those who pity with prejudice, the desperation of my lament, and address me with undue misfortunes of madness and possession. I pursue them with adamant inquisitions, and they merely recede, fearing the energumen, the madwoman, the outcast. "Have you seen my husband, he was here just a minute ago" I say and yet there is nobody to respond. I must prepare the house. Perhaps soon he will ingress, and this is another one of his amorous frolics.