What is it to you or I,
Every time a stranger dies,
Another face within the crowd,
Another box beneath the ground.
Who should care for stranger's tears,
Falling for the stolen years,
An empty silence of respect,
A stranger's life, a stranger's death.
Who could feel an empty pain,
For lives that are forever changed,
In distant grief and muted prayer,
A soul you never knew was there.
For death is free from thought and time,
And death is more than simple rhyme,
Strangers born must not remain,
The seeds of friendship, grow in rain...
-D.P. You can join Unsolved Mysteries and post your own mysteries or
interesting stories for the world to read and respond to Click hereScroll all the way down to read replies.Show all stories by Author:  19613 ( Click here )
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