My best of all friend's
forgot my own name,
Ne'er may he know
of the man I became.
There I walk'd into that
room of dim light,
Where in chair he sits-
most desolate sight.
"Hello grandpa, do you remember me?"
Receive blank stare
with hot tear on my cheek.
"I'm your grandson,
your favorite at that;
Here's a picture of us-
here we both sat.
'Twould be your fifty-sixth
birthday photo,
Look, we are wearing our
'best friend's' polo."
He grabs from my hand,
the frozen image;
Gentle, slow, weak and timid,
Just like these syllables.
And as if by a mircale,
He fights and digs for glory,
Let out a whisper,
"I'm sorry, Corey."
He ebbs away into the afterlife.
Why do all things dear
end in such sour strife!
All that I have to
remember death by;
Is that we are mostly
dead than alive.