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 It was a cold, cold day when she left us, she took all the light with her, she took all the music with her, she took all the laughter with her,  and we were left cold on that cold, cold day she left us.

It was a cold, cold day when she left us, we had to save our drowned hearts, we had to swim against the pressing waters, we had to pull our drenched bodies out, and we remained gasping for breath on that cold, cold day she left us.

It was a cold, cold day when she left us, we looked for her in our hearts, we looked for her in our dreams, we looked for her in our souls.  And we found her there, and there, and there.

And that is where she now lives – in us, always, forever.

In silence strums the solitude poet;

His words his strings, his pen his pick, his poem his song;

To be sung on stage by another, to an oblivious crowd.

He stands back stage.

To the rhythmic pattering of raindrops on your rooftop.  To the melodic chirping of birds outside your window. To the soothing brushing of the breeze against your garden trees.

To the soothing music that rises when we subside our maddening clattering.

Have a relaxing weekend.