Sorrow strikes and I cry.
And then seek solace in words.
And it is there.
Thank goodness for the poets who put them down.
She told me her novel, but never wrote it.
And now it's lost. The story can never be told again.
And there will be no good-bye.
And I resolve to put the words on paper.
Nobody else can tell my tale.
Enough of tragedy. I can't bear to pile one more sorrow on, and so I write.