I was walking through the street
With a hollow in my heart,
Aching for the faces I
Will never see again,
When I looked into the chapel
Standing squat on Broad and 4th,
And saw what makes me wonder,
Why we ever venture forth.
A little old lady, a little old lady,
By the open coffin’s side
Staring at the empty face to whom
She is the bride.
An isolated moment where no love
Can ever hide,
A foretaste of the end to which we
Ever closer tide.
A little old lady by the open coffin’s side;
A foretaste of the end to which we
Ever closer tide.
Left behind with broken faces
Staring down into the grave,
It makes me wonder if we’ll always be death’s
Lifelong slave.
I wrote this poem thinking of my widowed grandmother.
