It Stings to Hear Their Memories Frayed

The whispers twist like smoke and ash,
A tarnish on a cherished past.
They paint a picture, cold and gray,
Of parents loved, now swept away.

Their laughter, once a joyful tune,
Now echoes hollow, out of tune.
Their kindness, once a warming sun,
Deemed weakness by the thoughtless one.

It stings to hear their memories frayed,
Their gentle hands as faults portrayed.
The love they gave, a precious thing,
Reduced to whispers on the wing.

But anger flares, a righteous fire,
To shield their light, their hearts’ desire.
Their legacy, a tapestry bright,
Woven with love, and woven tight.

No whispered word, no careless tongue,
Can steal the truth of what they’ve done.
Their love remains, a guiding star,
Though shadows try to dim how far

Their light has reached, the warmth they gave,
A shelter strong, a life they saved.
So let them speak, with words unsound,
Their whispers lost on hallowed ground.

For in your heart, their memory lies,
Untarnished truth in loving eyes.
And when the storm has passed its peak,
Their love will guide you, strong and sleek.