Tate Morgan > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

All that's left of our sweet love, is this song that we once knew.

Life washed by endless rain

Now a father of my own; I see him bright laughing still.

Hard the road that trekked our life.

My son how I love him.

Left to us was this memory: Kindness, he lit by way he knew.

They lay down their arms to worship the night. Then shun the light of day.

No one walks anywhere anymore.

She thought this soul she'd keep.

Our short lives hastened streams be.