Plucking at the strings of emotion,

Bringing a masterpiece casually into being,

A soloist’s rendition mirrors your condition;

Like the crown of flowers nestling on your head,

Fluttering in the gentle breeze,

Slowly loosing each of its petals to the wind,

Falling away, and leaving only stem and nettles,

To soak on the surface of a lake of tears,

Before submerging and resting at the basin to be covered in detritus,

An apt accompaniment to sudden bout of grief:

As you wade into the middle seeking elusive redemption,

From your memories and dreams, turned harassing nightmares of late,

Toward the inevitability of your own drowning,

For, the further you move out, the deeper the lake gets;

And, what you search for is nowhere to be found,

Searching for solace and meaning in a soloists melancholy,

As your tears trail down to join those of thousands of others’ before you,

Who have found themselves in a similar state,

For you are not the first, nor the last, to experience this feeling of loss;

And it is our feelings and not our memories, that are the true common bond and uniter, both then and now.