This is an ode to you.
However,

This is not an ode to who you are now,
Or who you were before you left—
This is an ode to who I thought you were,
and this is an ode to the truths I believed.

I don’t miss you,
I miss the image of you.
I miss the illusion in my mind that was untainted
and I miss what you had given me when I was innocent.

I miss when the grass was so green it’d mesmerize me.
I miss when the rushing stream was not flecked with red
I miss when the glare on our eyes was from the sun and not the fire.

This is not an ode to who you are now,
this is an ode to who I thought you were,
and this is an ode to the lies you’ve forgotten.

I sing this song on the dirt that you lay behind;
Your veil now, death, is something I can’t penetrate.
I sing this song under the tree you dangled from:
where my head is, your feet dangled.

This is not an ode that I like to sing,
this is an ode of hatred and feigned indifference,
and this is an ode to the ruin you left behind.