Afterthought

     I. 
You see, his body never made it
To the city of angels.
Lit by Purgatory's divine lights.
Oh, he would have loved the sight.

To see chaos rolling in masses.
Down the boardwalk and past the ocean,
But his body did not make it there,
Therefore he could not see their despair. 

     II.
He wanders the yard when night stirs.
Sits in the garden beside his beloved's favorite.
An Iris painted in his ravens curled dream,
An Iris coddled with early morning sheen. 

He marvels at the drooping wings
In all of their midnight-colored glory.
Oh, how he wishes the mourning dove a raven.
Oh, how he wishes to see his lover again.