How we crave for the sound of a loved one’s voice,

how deep is the silence when we do not hear, that

ache, so hollow, devoid of echo, beating but out of

tune with the song that heart would sing; the notes

it would send forth, the chords it would strum, in

honour of the one who is so precious, so woven

through the very fibre of being, that there is no

true separation, despite the physical divide which

keeps us apart, as the bells toll sonorous and sad,

reminding us always that the loss of that tone is

something that will never be, or can be forgotten

and which will always be desired, here or gone,

even when there is a chance that it may not be

heard again, in that lilt of loving once possessed,

drawing together, two, as one, or even more, in

that way of being when people do surely belong.

Then the silence digs deep into the void of non-

being, striking sharp against the stones and rocks

of reality, bringing down the walls of possibility,

until, there is a place, where nothing can be heard.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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