Poem no.4

What's the point of it all,
She despaired.
What's the meaning of life?
She thought she had it figured you see,
So beyond her years and wise.

Compassion, gratitude, mindfulness,
Self-care down to a tee.
Don't sweat the small stuff,
she read,
Sleep well - it's all about me.

He poured his soul into children.
Shaped them, made them new.
Wiped their tears when they fell,
Shielded them from the truth.

Birthday parties,
Bedtime stories,
Dropping off then collecting.
Fragments of time she grasps at
To make meaning of the ending.

We left behind are silent.
Bereft of all you stood for.
This world seems much more empty;
What was it all for?

To go on in life, to make it count,
Whilst surrounded by memories of you.
Every item a relic,
Of what you liked to do.

Your thousand-volume library,
(Three-thousand to be exact.)
Sorted carefully by author,
Again by genre;
Reverently stacked.

And your beloved speakers
Meticulously placed
Exactly on the floor,
For their conductor to hear best,
His booming orchestra.

But our pianist's seat sits empty.
The class awaits its tutor.
Mum comes home to dinner for one
The futility overbearing.

I cry myself to sleep at night,
Or lie awake and meditate
On how temporary life truly is,
And unknown.
And desolate.