Is my suitcase big enough?
Once clothes come out, will grief fit?
or will memories fill every crevice?

Packing boxes of a life once lived,
packing a suitcase of a life still living.
What selfishness, what obsession.

But it's time now, the train always coming,
and the impending journey, always one yet to come.

But who’s it for?
What would you say?
If this journey's too hard to take,

what’s one more cancelled visit to a man in his grave?