For the loss of a loved one there is no cure,
You aren’t sick. You can’t get better.
You move forward, metronome,
stutter, stumble, slip, trip and fall.
Pick yourself up and lean on me,
Cry salty tears upon my shoulder
and I’ll be your rock, nay, your boulder.
In times like these your friends are sentinels,
Standing tall, showing the way,
guiding you along a path to a better day
where the pain will fade;
no longer a cut from a sharpened blade.
Just a dull ache surrounded by the warm glow of
memories from better times.
Let us hold your hand and walk on together.