Some who pass from our lives
age as fine wine over time,
the memory growing richer
until they’re a legacy deep in our hearts,
our hand holding theirs tight
even after they fail to clear that last hill,
that milestone where they went missing in time.
Others who pass from our lives
become more distasteful with time,
the pain inflicted increasingly bitter
until they’re a cancer deep in our hearts,
each drink from a poisoned well
where we’re chained and cursing their name,
unless we forgive and walk on rather than dwell.
©March 2016, Christina Anne Hawthorne