Born in the Christmas Summer,
though none would celebrate with me.
High up in the valley,
all too soon I was cut free.
Forgo the cribside comfort,
crying, sick and broken, small and cute.
Lone house upon the street
to save me from the garbage chute.
School time in the playground,
boys and girls and lots of fun.
Left me bruised and left my loving,
so my happiness was none.
To understand loss and suffering
the emptiness inside.
One accident would do it,
but they’d call it suicide.
I tried to make my living,
fixing people was my trade.
Now I’m the one needs fixing,
no scalpel cut or surgeons blade.
I’d pay the ghastly ferryman,
the Devil and the Lord
to undo the things that broke me
and send the one who I adored.
“Is this what You want from me,”
as the pain tore at his gut.
He knew that only God would see.
how deep his heart was cut.
None left on earth to care for me,
to fix my shredded soul.
Buried in the Winter,
in the deep and darkest hole.
R.I.P Dr B.W.