His suit was the perfect fit for fete,
like Bond meeting M up the HQs’,
this would be brief, he knew, before the wool stretches,
as his Angel graced the aisle, she would do the stitches’,
torn by grease spiced with love,
and he loved her even more.
A cute bungalow,
fenced with willowing trees and chirping birds,
was nothing to her welcoming kisses,
but today silence whispers time is due.
He paced the white halls, confused and calm,
a sharp whine burying the worries. It’s mother?
His suit sits loosely on frail shoulders,
thorns of grief hug his withered heart,
starring at the casket where his Angel sleeps,
Is life this bitter?
Leaving a crying infant, a treasure ticket,
for a voyage that never sailed,
to the happily-ever land.
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