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Poem

I consider Christian a good friend to me
He stands tall, as a mighty oak tree
Who could imagine or want to see
An oak fall so devastatingly
When she was taken so savagely
Kris

He ranted, he raved so angrily
He cursed and yelled quite bitterly
Then he would sadly cry to me 
And ask, “Why? Why? Why?” to me
Would God take the mother of his baby?
Kris

He made an effort to move on then
I tried to be a supportive friend 
I doubt he read the things I’d send
Then he’d ask me, “When? When? When?”
Would his heart’s healing for her begin?
Kris

I can picture him very late at night
With his eyes closed real, real tight
Picturing the two of them in the bright sunlight
Knowing these feelings are not those he can fight
So he whispers to no one in the night
I love you, Kris.

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