In distant times one might see her, walking restless lonely streets, compassion trailing in her breeze, A simply being of light, she fought, against the enemies of love and loss. Unlike a ghost or a wandering wraith, Her eyes were not a such solemn lakes, but lifted her love, her life, her fate.
Blue eyes teasing skies above, till nights unknown enigma begun, My friend, my love, my poet, my dove, If not reading, writing or crying tonight, Above my laptops blueish light, Should her silken breath then kiss my ear, my death may then be solid and real, as her ghost of life might then become.