The morning sun, she carried much more than warmth in her touch;
There was still magic in her eyes, a sparkle.
The immaturity spilling out in a terminal cycle,
Her voice earnest, entreats, withered much.
You sink, you rise, you stumble, never fall;
Inch by inch, you sow reality, replace hope.
The knots tighten, you cope.
You stand tall.
The last spark of fire, the last splint of wood;
A shrouded tale of would.. and could.
Roles not reversed, you’re still tall.
Spaces widen, pauses strengthen.