Aren’t most of us crying
At
The funerals
From our own
“Selfish” reasons?
Not from the dead one’s
Biggest treasure passing
Yet ‘cause we won’t get to feel
Them clearly
For our own needs
And desires?
Anymore?
They are most probably
Joyful,
At least peaceful,
In the new realm
Yet
We mourn
For the moments no longer
For us
To
Be.

How wondering it feels
To think
That usually we are those,
Who must and should learn
To live on and rejoice
After someone’s death
When there comes at last
The moment
When we become those,
Who leave
And are to tell others
Of
It.

Taken out of kitchen in a rush,
In the same tiny cape of black
I use when naked,
Clad,
Now standing before sudden
Church “shanties” and
Of my father’s friend no-more-together
Crowd,
I watch, cry solely
In the colours of thoughts of my eyes.

What are those measly flowers for
If they shall wither soon, Dad?
Why can’t I break now, Dad?
How much did he mean to us, Dad?
...
Dad?
...
Step blocked as such,
Adam grips calmly yet strongly
The collar of my cape
And there’s no more another place
For him
To stay,
Than the crook of my
Seventeen-year-old tanned neck.

Hold his hair, backside,
Protecting all the salty water
He has nobody yet to everyone
To offer.

Can’t move.
Don’t move.