My dear friend, to whom I can only wish life,
I take this moment to write these last words—
words I could only think to send to you.
You, whom I have lost forever,
and who, for all your sense, could not find
the right path,
the righteous path.
(You did not follow my path).

No—
I am not one who can determine
right and wrong;
for every drop of insight in your glass
is one emptied from my own.
But I can say I do not understand
what brought you to this field,
what stole you
from my grasp,
what led you
to the wolves.

As I sit here in my bed of sorrows
and relive my life’s distress and delight,
and the wind rustles
through the leaves of the trees—
and my peers surround me,
whispering the end of days—
I ponder the failings
I never took the chance to weigh.

And you have not left my mind
for a moment
in our decaying world.
(You could not leave my mind,
for where would you go?)

Oh, my friend,
there is not a moment
I do not wish for something to
bring you back to me
so to return you to my side,
to a place where you
are safe.  

But who am I to control your fate?
I am not your keeper—
if only.
You chose your fate and I chose mine,
and those decisions saw us to our place,
here on life’s arena.

It is all I can do to hope and pray
for one as
bright as you shine
to hold on to your place in this world.
I beg you to see this through to the end,
and mourn me,
For I would lay down my own life,
Be it that you could live.