The Broadest Daylight

He sat staring at his hands, it wasn't working.
It meant more to him than most things. Why he whispered, oh why.
Heart filled tears might as well have streamed his face like an ecleptic monsoon.
He cradled the deceased in his arms and mourned during the song of the dead.
Death might call upon him next, such is misery.
Might you pass me three times over, ye hollow grace.
It was simply dead in his hands.
It. Was. Over.