For souls passed live on.

We are not all destined to grow old.

Sometimes our bodies expire

But when, we aren't told.

Sometimes our hearts are auctioned

Without say to whom it's sold.

Sometimes our minds play tricks

That leave our flesh cold.

It makes no sense to think about,

The flesh & blood,

Or who made this mold.

It's harder to think about,

Now you're gone,

Whose hand I will hold.

But sometimes our souls may flourish

Into a million pedals & colors of gold.

This only happens because

In our souls, we know no old.

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For my beloved friend who lost a father today and for all the loved ones of my friends whom I have not written for.