The bad may come in threes,
But you were not that.
Tragedy echoes not
The feelings within me.

You are the Great Third,
The final of the trio
The golden sheft of wheat
Given to the gods of autumn.

You are the shining sun
A glorious ray of light
But a cloud rolls past you, dear
Shadowing your might.

The tragedy may have been me
But twas it not you.
You may have torn my soul apart
But you can mend it anew.