I am the paper left out in the rain I still look the same, But never to be used again. I am the decorated egg at Easter Drained of my life essence through a tiny hole A decorative shell that is weaker I am the dream that comes with the dawn Vague incoherent fragments of something That turn into nothing with the first yawn. The fondant flower on the cake Moulded and crafted and placed on top The piece of the cake no one will take. I am the teacup with a chip in its ear Left in the darkness of the cupboard But bound to be discarded, I fear. I am the flower pressed inside the book Robbed of fragrance and floral pride How pitiful and lost I must look. I am the pinata left hanging after the party Bashed and battered but not destroyed Transformed, transferred and tardy The joyless abandoned carnival at winter Empty tents and stationary carousels Whispering echoes of laughter as they dissenter. I am the calligrapher without ink Invisible words from a despairing soul No meaning conveyed, just there on the brink You took your last breath But now I cannot breathe The air it is too thick with pain. You lost your life I lost my sister. My friend My memory keeper My bond of blood. Because you died I struggle to live You were my life The colour of my heart The shape of my soul Now you are gone and I remain The rumpled picture without its frame Not alive Nor dead. Lonely but never alone. Too fragile to remember Desperate to never forget. And thus I am left Heartbroken bereft. I am the paper Left out in the rain. Destined to never ever be the same.