every molecule,

of me,

is in constant,


with the presence,

of you,

and how you,


and even more,

with how,

you died,

and at my worst,


I melt,

into the fabric of time,

consumed with,

sadness and melancholy,

only to be lifted,

by the thought,

of the heavenly place,

that has been,


to resurrect,

the bones you broke,

and the blood,

you spilled,

into the essence,

of a newly formed spirit,

added to the weight of,


T.S. Deary

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