Fifty-five, a weathered soul, adrift,
No hearth to warm, no loving gift.
A silent ache, a lonely sigh,
Where gentle hands once warmed the eye.

Thirty-five years, a fleeting dream,
Of hopes and joys, a whispered gleam.
A family's promise, softly spun,
Now scattered fragments, lost, undone.

The windswept past, a whispered plea,
Passengers gone, eternally.
A life's ambition, now a tear,
A barren landscape, filled with fear.

The warmth of love, a distant star,
A vacant chair, a silent scar.
The hands that built, now cold and bare,
A weary heart, beyond compare.

No comforting embrace, no loving hand,
Just echoes of a life unplanned.
A journey's end, a silent plea,
For solace found, eternally.