The chair once occupied
now sits empty, alone
kept company only by flowers
and a flickering candle.

Quills lie abandoned in their baskets,
their stories unfinished.

The mirror, once alive
with dress fittings, careful hands,
and reflections of quiet beauty,
now offers nothing back
only a hollow, singular stare.

There is an ache in losing everything
that most will never know,
but for the hundreds of thousands who do,
it carves itself deep
a sorrow that does not fade.

It burns like thermite through steel,
slow, relentless, absolute.

And when you are fifty-seven
and standing alone in it,
the silence grows louder,
the emptiness wider
until you look around
and there is nothing left to hold.

Even the Grim Reaper weeps.