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In Rome, I walk where ancient stones lie still,

 In Rome, I walk where ancient stones lie still,

The air is dry, the scent of time’s own breath,

Birds sing familiar songs on a distant hill,

Their melody a balm, a whisper of death.


Your voice, a memory in a blackbird’s call,

A cry that echoes through my soul’s deep ache,

Not here, not now—you’ve gone from it all,

Yet in my heart, your presence still awakes.


They say you’re at peace, no pain, no tears,

But peace eludes me in this city’s grace,

My loss is sharp through all these years,

A shadow I can’t erase.


Yesterday marked another year gone by,

A simple “thank you,” a silent plea,

Tomorrow’s anniversary, I cry,

For the wife you loved and set free.


Cancer’s cruel, dementia’s worse,

They steal the voice, the wits, the light,

Endings come in silent curse,

Leaving shadows in the night.


You slipped away with pneumonia’s breath,

A gentle passing, a final rest,

While I remember the last birthday,

When you didn’t recognize my face, my best.


Three years have passed since that quiet day,

Since I watched you fade away,

In this park, I breathe and try to stay—

Caught between memory and pain’s display.


A child’s toy, a Vespa’s gleam,

Symbols of joy, of life’s sweet dream,

Yet even in innocence, shadows gleam,

Reminding us of suffering’s silent scream.


So I set out to find some peace today,

Among the trees, the laughter, the mundane,

But like the lobsters in their tank’s display,

We’re never truly free from pain.


And in this moment, I hold the ache,

A love that lingers, a heart that breaks,

In Rome’s old stones, in every breath I take,

Your memory whispers, never to forsake.


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