Little hands are reaching out,
Broken hearts screaming silent cries.
Moving through the veil of life,
through the eminence of this death we shall rise.
In the presence of the magnitude of her love,
this pain is but a pinprick,
a thorn upon the roses stem.
It shall bloom forever,
for the soul knows no end.
The planets shift and move,
reminding me I can do the same.
Our destinies may be carved in stone,
but the author is none other than the hand that is our own.
She’s spilled her blood and exposed her scars,
handles ****** with an elegant grace.
No anger in the bones that will rest,
her peace un-jeopardized by an unexpected fate.
I breathe the moments bedside deep -
extract her nectars,
her love, her faith.
Silently I bow my head,
and promise to honor all that is her name.

7/28/18