Where do I begin?The soft folds of her body&The fierce fire of her eyesAre a good placeI remember what she saidThat distant fall morning“Don’t get lost”
My heart is a warrenOf old hurtsAnd new triumphsThe wallsAre the pink rosy goldColorOf hardshipThe roomsAre filled with the facesOf those that I loveLike radiant, shining beaconsBeacons that light the way forwardThe rooms are filled with memoriesThat I would rather forget
Her head lay on the groundVery much detached from her bodyShe looks at me with reproachful eyesAlmost as ifIt was my faultAs ifI could some how preventedHer murderHow dare I remain aliveWhen she was dead?It is the responsibility of the livingTo bury the deadButIt is the deadWho must remind the livingLife is shortWhere do I begin?