Grievous Loss

As purses turn to bags ‘neith my eyes,
I put flowers on the grave,
Steady rains quiet my cries,
And grieve a life too late to save.

The moon shines through wet night skies,
I pray his soul to heaven raise,
As I look up to ask Him why,
I hurl above acerbic phrase.

Just pull a knife across my life,
With him lost, my soul is dead,
My father’s heart has turned to ice,
My anger burns in fires of red.