I once wrote of your funeral,

Too bury you in my past,

Concealed memories with the deepest earth,

And freedom came at last.

But from that grave I see your hand,

Squirming through the dirt above,

Through my tears I must turn away,

It’s too late to pretend at love.

So once again here I stand,

Staring straight into hurt and dark,

No stone required to remember this place,

Absence of Mother Love leaves it's own mark.