I believe in humanity.
I worship at the altar of peace.
I pray for salvation from within.

I have no faith in human gods;
Just the minds
That dreamt them up from nothing.

Yet I falter, and I doubt
And even if it’s just for tonight,
I admit my gods are as false as any other.

I am a heathen.

There's a place
Growing in the back of
My head.
The bricks are watered
By discomforts and
Depression.
The Windows are
Sprouted
In earth composed of a mixture of
Anxiety and PTSD.

I want a home where
Your shadows
Are as familiar to the walls
As a spouse.
Where you can hide,
But feel like you don't have to.

I want your peels of laughter  
To litter my living room
Floor,
Your smiles to stain
My ceiling fans,
And your tears to fill my kitchen
Sink.

I want a home
Of grace and charity
Where I can protect the broken
And pained.
The image is growing in
The back of my head,
The need is rooted in my skull.
The blasting heat
Of your parent's anger,
Is the sun
For it's photosynthesis.

We can have midnight
Conversations
At the kitchen table,
Where you can
Unscrew the bolts in your
Iron
Armor
And let loose the demons
You've been trapped with,
To burn in our
hot water heater.

There's a place I want for you,
A home cultivated by
Your brother and I,
A loving hideaway
For Grace and Charity.

~

we are the sum of our whole,
though the soul until death,
is largely unknown.
our words and our deeds,
whatever our needs,
outliving, outpacing
our to-the-end racing,
until all has been
thought, said and done.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all the dear ones departed,
when distilling’s begun.

i believe Antony was wrong,
for the good that men do
lives after them long;
and like sickness, any ill
is interred with their bones.
misdeeds are forgotten,
harsh words set aside,
remembered the kindness,
the love and the pride.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all dear ones departed,
here distilling’s begun.

when the fallen lie in repose,
what’s given in secret,
done deeds not for show;
words gifted are sifted,
here goodness is known.
a life time well-lived
remains hidden not long;
here defeat is forgotten,
only victories won.
when mourners are gone,
the dirges been sung,
all dear ones departed,
then distilling’s begun.

within twilight’s stilling,
begins the distilling;
the good left behind,
in loved ones instilling.

~

*post script.

“travel light; enjoy the journey”  
words a son lived by, distilled,
only in death.
we are still...
learning,
still...
distilling,
the depth and the breadth of his life.