[Upon the recent sixth anniversary of my daughter’s fiancee’s death. – Owen]
She wrote a book inside her head
Of all that you and she would be;
The words you’d use to rouse yourselves
And others, from complacency.
And this you’d do for all to see:
You’d lay your poor souls bare —
The world you’d leave a better place
From art and love that you would share;
She’d go where her heart led her to
And know she’d always find you there.
You hatched this plan with loving care,
To grow your dream immense —
But she looks now and you are gone.
The present turned into past tense:
The world’s been rippled slightly, but
Its water’s murky, dark and dense –
And how then, now, should she commence
With only half a dream?
You wrote a book inside her heart;
She sets the table, still, for two:
She’s here, but you’re forever gone
Except the part of her