And slowly it burns in the fires of pyre
the figure that warmed us with golden words.
Even in pale death how neatly attired
all so ready for the journey onwards.
Old memories blaze as the flames engulf
to wrap me in that familiar embrace.
Tears well up as I try to bridge the gulf
between truth and hope lest I lose
its trace.
Often I feel the presence in my dream-
in the lovely haze I wish that clears not.
I wake not though unreal it may deem
for it binds us with those surreal knots.
As the pyre burns- I muse, fidget and fuss-
if ever a soul lived for a purpose.
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