It had been a tragic accident:

There had been too little light,

Not enough grip,

Thoughts posing as distractions.

Just a car and a trench

Lying on the side of the road,

Metal crushed and lightly smoking

With s h a t t e r e d glass thrown

everywhere,

Like handfuls of glitter

Stained scarlet with life.

Just a boy,

Barely lived through his eighteenth winter,

In that shiny ebony car-the lifeless metal below.

Broken and empty.

Empty and broken.

Never again to hold him,

To hear his spirited laugh,

To whisper his name under the sheet of night.

Words of Goodbye left unsaid,

Even more so Words of Love.

As the siren's song approaches,

And the snow begins to fall,

The bird's wings furl and stop beating;

His heart soon to follow.

And the mournful winds whisper gently his name.

Goodnight dearest soul,

Goodnight dearest Blaine.