That heart wrenching despair. The gut-pulling, plunging feeling of loss. It hurt.
As the red appeared on the horizon, growing larger, larger.
Funny, how in all things, we went out with a slow, slow fire, not a bang,
not a sudden clean slate, nobody quite relizing what had happened.
Just the slow, agonizing knowing.
I hope I will be holding your hand.
I hope I will be crying,
as my heart beats and my mind,
with the utmost certainly,
knows how we will all die.
I hope I can cry, for all of us.
For this world built on it’s own ashes.
Maybe we might send the flowers out onto the lake,
and hope that somewhere, out in the vast beyond,
someone is leading the life that we will never have.
And we will weep for them too.