Little dreamer,
woman-child so frail,
how could I know
when I knocked you down the years
that you would cling impulsively
to the man I would become?
I, ten years wearier,
your only link to the past:
a decade forfeit to coma,
all that was once yours
lost and forgotten:
you, my key to a mystery
ten years unsolved.
But They still lay in wait
with Their unearthly patience,
to pounce on your awakening,
making a tool of the dead
to strike the blow so long delayed.
Oh, little one,
fragile carefree runaway,
why did I delay?
Abused by expedience
They withered you,
stole your years away.
Now you sleep
the longest sleep of all.
–Kathryn Andersen
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