There is no heaven, yet angels exist
In the deeds of saints and minds of elders.
In the veins of every leaf set adrift;
In the palms of mine hands as I held her's
And in this darkness, mere absence of light,
Knowing too well she is gone evermore.
Still held full thrust in my pitiful sight:
Just to be grateful to what came before?
Living for what was leads to despairing.
How does one move on from true purity?
Sentient fullness true when comparing,
For through that lens the weigh to surety
Made real in my mind; this apparition
Can only die in imagination.

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