tentatively took page from playbook of devout believers...

Allowing, enabling, and providing
cautious optimism to abound
thus easing grief instead
reason to rejoice found
once corpse cremated
or buried underground.

Whereby reincarnation will eventually...
mitigate grief otherwise...
mind numbing skull will experience
shell shock twill forever stun

unable to square circle
defying reality analogous to accept flying nun
(matter of fact) reunite each loved one,
thus resisting automatic reflex against secularism
just for fun.

Bidding thy nonagenarian
papa permanently farewell...
tis no rhyme nor reason
for me to cry inconsolably
versus ruminating diametrically
opposed outlook pray tell.

How bittersweet mortality doth taste
grievance especially unpalatable,
when existence of
Boyce Brandon Harris erased,
whereby fading memories
offer small consolation baste
within the noggin of his sole sun
twice orthodontically braced.

I still remember, when ye shlepped me
to Lancaster Cleft palate clinic
(mother came along for the ride;
plus she enjoyed stopping at Entenmann's
Exton, Pennsylvania location)
splurging for sweet tooth.

Doctor Mazaheri (small statured)
(a renown prosthodontist)
fitted yours truly for speech appliance
to rectify submucous cleft palate -
a bony defect in the midline
or center of the bony palate

imparted nasal twang
pronouncedly noticeably distinct
mutation genetically bequeathed
middle offspring born this way
offering yet another defect
whereupon token scapegoat
opportunistically targeted by bullies.

Twilight (zone) of your life
metaphorical draws curtain call
concomitantly ushering
remembrance of things past.

Recapitulation of most salient sunny events
fondly recalled mostly boyhood circumstances
many incorporating Lilliputian Matthew Scott Harris
forever jinxed (think hoisted by his own petard)
thus **** of jokes and laughingstock
among madding crowd.

Alas, methinks how robust, intimidating
and indomitable dad appeared
when yours truly a wee lad
undersized even now as an elder statesman (ha)
still the runt of rat pack

(though this measly once upon a time miserly
mousy man no pack rat)
matter of fact downsizes personal trappings
when I eventually make trek
across River Styx.

During interim (between now and then)
hope springs eternal
that suspended animation courtesy cryogenics
will halt biological aging (particularly mine)
preserving till end of time

freeze frame where mise en scène
retaining vestigial said countenance
portraying boyish looking good (older) fella
until peace on Earth
and good will to all men/women prevails.

I thaw (ought) how grand
to donate and/or repurpose body
as science fiction becomes reality,
where mise en scene art becomes life
cessation of senescence held in check
once defunct corporeal edifices

gentrified to instill longevity
twerking, seeding, pollinating...
**** sapiens fostering civilization
to take root across solar system and beyond
sphere where sunlight doth bathe bedlam.