December 23rd 2015
written by: Eoghan Lyng
@eoghanlyng
How cruel a car can take life away,
From the eyes of a beautiful woman,
Trailing for Christmas gifts,
And wishes in silent prayers,
For her loved ones to find themselves home.
Alone in her car,
Trampled and summoned,
Came the last of her breaths,
A 2,000 word vocabulary
Silenced by steel.
Journeyed from England’s shore,
For Ireland’s port and ham,
Her thoughts were of friends and of hope.
Her diary she wrote of the joys of the season,
Forgotten by recessionary feelings,
But for this girl with a taste for hope.
I remember her well,
A smile and a cheer,
Fearless yet cheerful,
Walking Patrick’s road corner,
Living life to the fullest.
She thanked me for cheering
Her writing when fearing
Her ideas weren’t enough
In this field of thinkers.
I laughed at the thought,
Her mind purer and virile,
And many great things to write.
Twenty two is an age most face,
The adult world on its head,
And to work in the field of stress.
It’s a word I hated,
Sensing the wastefulness of youth,
But somehow, it is better than death.
She died, so I’m told,
With a smile and a laugh,
Buying those last minutes
Her friends insisted she shouldn’t.
I remember the call,
Befalled as I wept,
For a death too soon
And too cruel to be thrown
At a soul too soft.
Star Wars seemed silly,
A picture belittled by fantasy,
Camp pomposity,
And the cinema too surreal for this thought.
She died, so I’m told,
At the height of her life,
And her Mass beckoned her ghost,
To family and friends,
Comforted by this senseless end,
As we loved her with the Christmas cheer she bestowed.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This is dedicated to a brilliant friend of mine. R.I.P.
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