The dye is cast,
And the fabric is sodden red.
Amongst the other clothes,
It stands out.
We sat, and you shared the bad news.
Upon reflection, I can’t believe your calmness.
All men die, trust one, one knows,
But to claim the inevitable as some grand design…
There’s pain of the flesh, pain of the soul,
She’d have always said stay, despite the cold.
So I light a fire that roars softly,
The ash wood crackles,
I told myself then, that the wood I see,
Was once a living tree.