Reunited

I'm going.

It is a thought perceived,
yet not indeed.

A love of one,
so Grey and green,
a child true: unweened.

Beauty of elegance so deep,
it lessens as you see it weep.

Even so in the day,
wonders of why and when they end.

For life, an echo of trumpets,
blasts throughout the layer,
the layer of life,
the forebode of his wife.

The violin strikes dissonance,
the piano plunks keys divulged,
brokenness is loathed.

Hurt and deserving,
a father most un-nerving,
saddens himself to a belt,
and wonders why,
he must cry.

Life, as a trumpet,
is quickly, and loudly, heard.

Yet, even as a bird,
a tiny chirp to a giant screech,
life has its ways,
of telling you,
that the violin mis played.