The soft words in the sermon could not be heard,
Over the stinging drop of a mothers single tear.
For one was as sorrow-soaked,
As the ones who slumped before me.
Their hands were an earthquake and their eyes were lakes,
While they wished for it all to be over,
So they could return to their now icy beds,
And warm them with self-pity.
We felt aches in hearts, chests and now legs,
When we walked to softly brush the woodwork
And the people that muttered nearly silent goodbyes,
Looked like spotted storm clouds.
These were the moments that tore me apart.
