A bike ride after the war,
to the dark, lonely shore.
Back to a darker age, silence,
from nations’ cruel violence.
The sun still rising, all blue,
heartbroken, without you.
TB took you to the grave.
Nothing left that could save.
Stuck in this remnant town.
Can’t run to NYC, burned down.
Bike rides on cracking streets.
No music left, no soothing beats.
First of December, the lake dark.
The eerie song of the meadowlark.
I’ll sit on the rocks, soothed by water.
I love her, though angels forget her.