He’s sounded the drums to call you home,
My dearest one Kyla, such is your call.
A call to angels and nobles supreme.
If I’d had notice of your brief stay;
I coulda sent you a flower of rose,
Or any of them scents so delicate they’d tinge your royal wonder.
I woulda sent you a poem in Gaelic,
Or a language there of you angels speak.
I coulda sang you a psalm,
Or the soothing words that bees hum;
The prime of Supremes that sets all calm.
I coulda painted you a dream,
Or a benign portrait of a fairy Rome,
Anything, to have you, my world to call home.
I now stand to loathe.
I loathe the cold in my veins,
And its numbness that sets me to wail.
I loathe the warmth of my tears,
My heart and the wretch that’s me, bleeds.
I loathe the taste of pain,
To have it is a hellish task,
To hold it to last is a lot to ask.
I loathe to lose.
A gimmick or charm will do me no wonder,
Your mind so made with no point to ponder,
With a heart so kind you choose not to linger,
And leave me more broken than an arrow aimed at a rock.
The flicker you were, the flicker you lived,
It’s a lifetime you’ll forever be loved.
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