Cycles of the moon

Soften the prick of decay

With the memory of your gaze in love

Into my minds eye

I most certainly find

Our Self flying high

Cushion my tears on a pillow

Made from the weepiest of willows

These trees soothe all worries

Only growth above me

A new view that fills the hollow

Beckon the token of hindsight

This time we say farewell

Heights have been reached

Our spark, piqued

Knowing you sure has been swell