She takes a pretty little flower from her father’s silent grave and presses these muddied knees to the floor – been waiting for one subtle message or other, to distract her whole
To have in her chrysanthemum-powdered hands
To unmatchedly hold for all of an ethereal existence fair spiritualised within
She appears to be teary-eyed, plied by these saddened thoughts for a far better outcome – see, he was the only one who truly took to caressing her better qualities, to supporting her utter unabashed necessity to account, amount to everything when least suspecting
Settle his soul and whisper near a radiantly pricked ear for approval
– Who Am I Without You –