Time heals all things,
So it has been said;
A broken heart,
Or a stinging loss,
Is much like a festering wound,
Permanently etched on the soul.
It is the most private of affairs
That you will never share,
Despite a need to natter,
And the encouragement
That others might give.

Why must hurt be so humiliating?
Does the tincture of time
Really do the trick,
Or is it the façade
That we embrace;
A gift that we offer
To others in need?
Is the pain of loss,
Good friend of mine,
All that within me,
Which is tempered by time?

It is said that the record
Of our lives,
Passes gently,
Before our eyes,
When in the last moment
We draw our breath,
And revel in our living,
During the instant
Of our death.

Wave thy wand,
If ye would be a god,
But alas,
You are soul's trusted companion.
However,
Know in thy heart,
Good friend of mine,
Despite my heartache,
This is life divine,
And know in my smile,
As ye embrace me
A while,
That it is pain
Which is etched in my soul.