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.
