There is a finality in death.
  A sanctity in the silence,
  A strange sense of safe.
  Still you are home.

  But there's also an agony,
  A never-ending grief to those left behind,
  A numbness in your father tears,
  A merit to your mother's fears.
  Still you are loved.

  But you will never know this,
  How deeply you were loved, by how many,
  How we wept when you died, despite never knowing your favourite colour, your sisters name, or how the sky came duller.

  And we will never know,
  The sadness that forced you from your home that Wednesday morning,
  That climbed the oak, that hung the rope.
  We only know that we have lost;
  a friend, a son, a brother, another.

  And for you we weep,
  And for you we cry
  And for you we curse our hatred to the sky
  Because you're not here,

  There's no more laughter, only fear,
  We missed the signs,
  You disappeared.
 
  We held you close, we held you near,
  But it wasn't enough, that much was clear,
  Still we love you my darling, we always will.
  Though you'll never quite know it,
  And our wounds will never truly heal.