I witness
the marching armies,
some trudging through the sludge of slaughter,
some gliding as if on polished glass
others flying on sympathetic currents
few faithfully, but ALL fatefully, moving
onward, to the deep sleep
like a mute director in life’s one act play
I watch many in their final moments
some in stillness so sweet
my camera gently weeps ( though not I)
others I record being ripped apart
in metal madness, yet
I don’t blink an eye
even while wiping the
blood from my hands
you, Robert, music maker at heart,
meat cutter by trade, scored my lens
leaving it forever altered
I knew you, a year younger than I,
I saw you, beaten down
by the grave gravity
we cherish yet dread,
you, trudging through
the slaughter, one
of the harshly humbled,
you, found the right rope
and your wife found you
on a Sunday morning,
hanging
in the garage,
your letter to the world the clang
of the alarm that woke her
and hastened her slow march
to the church, where other directors
took over the filming, and
closed the curtain, after
the final choking act
I cannot miss you
I,
(who only wistfully recall
the millions of marchers near and far)
felt your Sunday sojourn
**** the air from my lungs
I can only be grateful
your living and dying
made me feel
the palled pain
and undying dread
unfortunately, a true story of someone who took his life less than a week ago--we were not close, though I knew him, better than I thought perhaps...