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She is Gone

The heart of the poet speaks out to the great nothingness, no audience,

for he is alone with the great Alone.

The only possible way to experience death is through others,

when someone you didn't know you loved dies,

the thought you will never ever see them again brings you to cry.

Crying for what, for who, me or for her,

beyond the grasp of my reach to contact,

she is gone so totally gone.

For this my heart grieves, it's a sorrow I cannot reprieve.

She is alive in me I think,

a ghost wandering in the dreamy labyrinth of my memories.

I saw her in my dreams.

I heard her from the beyond in a song.

For I remember, I remember who she was,

that is, who she is to me now as her influence over me persists,

as I feel complete loss, a void she filled I didn't know was there,

until she disappeared.

She's gone now with any love I had left in my heart.



May we meet again Casey Ann Frank. Thank you for everything. I miss you.



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I am nothing more than a passing ghost through the dream you call life.

 

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”