Hard to put into words
the extent of grief.
No cavalry of relief in sight
coming over the hill.
You, my son, those
last days, so ill.
Unlike you,
you soldier like
in life's fight.
Death took you unaware
that night
and again
the day after.
No present mirth,
no laughter,
no Shakespearean drama
set in tow,
no Chekhov way
with words,
no Ibsen dark talk,
just this, these words,
and a blown from palm kiss.
Silent words:
we love and miss.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
Hard to put into words
the extent of grief.
No cavalry of relief in sight
coming over the hill.
You, my son, those
last days, so ill.
Unlike you,
you soldier like
in life's fight.
Death took you unaware
that night
and again
the day after.
No present mirth,
no laughter,
no Shakespearean drama
set in tow,
no Chekhov way
with words,
no Ibsen dark talk,
just this, these words,
and a blown from palm kiss.
Silent words:
we love and miss.
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.
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