Caressed by Death

I'm exhausted by introspection and gaunt with tears unshed

I would have to be the ocean to occupy his bed

I would have to be the wind that stole his locks of dread

I would have to be a maiden who was, at least, drop dead

I would have to be the jester to translate what is said

I would have to be the chef of sweet nothings never said

I would have to be the colonel blind to collateral dead

I would have to be a fencer thrusting truth upon brain dead

I would have to be the child that sings quietly, in bed

I would have to be the saviour of every religious thread

I would have to be the mum of children occasionally wished dead

...but if my have-to-be's are forsaken

what shall I be instead?

...I shall be the friend

who brought your angel to your side

I'll grow to be an Artist

of great Angelic pride

Before my days are done

I'll sing and dance and laugh

And remember that my glass

was always full by half.