Still

When I am gone,

The little ones

Will cry at night,

But be alright,

For they are strong.

 

I will be lost,

My hair wind-tossed,

My lips both bruised,

My lips all used

And stung with frost.

 

In morning chill,

My darlings will

Avoid my room

Like it’s a tomb,

And miss me still.

 

When I have left,

And they have wept,

They’ll still go on,

For they are strong

And innocent.

 

With no one there

To comb their hair,

Their minds will reel,

Their hands will feel

The embers flare.

 

They’ll find a room

Much like a tomb,

(The one I used

Before I bruised)

So full of gloom.

 

And if they choose,

They will not lose

Their golden hearts,

Though torn apart

By Death’s cold dues.

 

They’ll look outside

To ocean tides,

And smile tight,

And see the light

That still resides.

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