There is an emptiness few understand;
a void only God can fill.
That precious energy beyond our hand,
whose voice has suddenly gone still.
We reach out in vain to grasp it once more,
but tears must suffice in its place.
We know not what remains in store,
but can only rely on his grace.
How can such dread befall one so dear?
Can a plan of God be so vile?
The future is filled with doubts and fear;
false promises tempt and beguile.
Is there a place beyond our view,
where we go to be once more;
and energy the same, with life to imbue
to live out a new encore?
What happened to the place that used to be;
where did its energy flow?
How was it transformed from what we see,
to that which we used to know?
How can there be a resting place;
for how may finality sleep;
and consciousness, leave not a trace;
leaving no one to weep?
For memory is but today,
frozen and moved on in time;
permitting us all to say,
“This life, gone; once was mine.”