The tempest tossed.
For those without,
With prevailing doubt.
The disrupted and disjointed ones,
With little air left in their lungs,
We must breathe in and breathe again,
And carry the pace of the race we're all in.
Though flowers must always bloom and leaves wilt and fall,
And the seasons must always change like the seasons of us all,
The life of so precious a man, a man such as he
Was never, I submit, intended not to be.
I wonder if it's crowded there, beyond what I can see,
With other spirits attending their own and watching patiently.
I know you can read this, I hear you mocking my faults still,
In a lovingly nagging way, though, intending no harm or ill.
But I can think of nothing more to do to communicate my pain,
Than to immortalize you in my words so there you will remain.
You have followed me to school and stood next to me each day,
And I'm writing this for you, dear heart, to ease your loss some way.
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