The dawn breaks grey upon the shattered glass,
And silence haunts the room where laughter died;
The winter chill will not permit to pass
The warmth that in your presence did abide.
Behold the book, the phantom of your touch,
The withered rose that crumbles on the floor;
I loved these trifles, perhaps loved too much,
Now distinct echoes of a closed door.
Upon the pane, the weeping rain descends,
Like tears that wash the weary, verbal stain;
No sudden joy my broken spirit mends,
Bound fast within this solitary chain.
I cast no blame upon the stars above,
Nor curse the fate that severed heart from heart;
I only mourn the spectre of our love,
And learn in quiet pain to drift apart.
Grief is the final act of love, a testament to the depth of what was shared. This piece invites you to sit with the sorrow rather than rush through it, finding a sombre beauty in the stillness that follows a great departure.
