Death she is there calmly waiting her turn
A farmer's wife she rests upon the wall
Her scythe still holds a piece of wheat
Her hands worn from the day

Death she catches some sun
A mature woman she in no hurry at all

She is just there

No rush


I can live with that

The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do?

It wasn’t letting you go.

That was difficult though, to swallow my pride and wear a smile to hide the fact I’m not okay.

Oh no, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do? Was finally admit to myself the truth.

It was admitting that you were never mine to begin with.