This child marked by Timogen
From heat runs to cold
We stumbled into April’s shroud
I bled, my world moulded in pain
Descending into denial, abandonment, crises
Everything of value dissipated
With spirit only to uplift
The passage of time did not assuage
The vibrant self-centred you
Grief has whipped me senseless
Everything is vacant
You don’t live in the material things you loved
Only melodies help to ease all this
I am the realisation of vapour
Is this where it ends?
Or is this where it begins?