My lover is the silence of time,
from whom is concieved
enormity.
I am the raging of ashes.
You, who might have been he,
are not here.
~ Lou Rogers
While searching for a couple of poems for my Aunt's memorial, I came upon one my mother wrote. My father had been many years gone when she wrote it. No one ever stepped into his place in her life. Indeed, it summarizes much about her life, and that also of a friend who died by her own hand in 2005. When there is no living human center in a life, there is sometimes in the end a simply a merciful closing of the book. For all those who stand alone in the hollow of the world, peace.
By Lou Rogers