Somewhere in the days of October
A Sunday in the occurrence of chance
Medication for the belly compared to company
Questions waiting for the nod of answers
Through scattered rays of fate
Where to behold a friend and face
The clock keeps its faithful purpose
Truly a sense of accompaniment
Information required for rudiments of love
A name called Owen like a dove
The muttered words of a Pained Pen
Clinging to the peals of thunder of survival
Carrying life in its weight
Too much of a burden to accommodate
Inspection keeps no account of affection
A gamble taken but not taken
The chances and smiles do not shake hands
And Give love its only portion
To save my soul from damnation
The softness of curves the witness of wit
A gaze of greeting A stance of steadfastness
Dreams of grasping healing without a fee
Caring like a road with no bend
Nonetheless a name and woman called Owen