Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
terry-collettPoems
I know your final days, my son, by mental rote, from Thursday to Monday, from being unwell to the last seconds dying, like a child learning a new nursery rhyme note by note, until it's unforgettable, stuck in each particle of cells and brain, bringing thoughts of disbelief and punch hard pain. Sleep seems the only comfort, that lying down, snug between cloth and warmth, mind drugged to a doped up momentary forgetting or easing, but still it's there when we awake, the sense of loss, that utter disbelief, that deep down cannot be hidden grief. I wish I were more Stoic like you, my son, my deep philosopher, my silent one; wish I had some philosophic remedy to cure the ache, to soothe the mind, some crutch or stick to tap around like one who's blind, but I have none, none that will ease or remedy the ill of your departure, none to fill the huge chasm between you there in Death's hold and God's grace and me left here sensing loss and the cold breeze of death's breath in my ageing face.
0
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
YOUR FINAL DAYS.
I know your final days, my son, by mental rote, from Thursday to Monday, from being unwell to the last seconds dying, like a child learning a new nursery rhyme note by note, until it's unforgettable, stuck in each particle of cells and brain, bringing thoughts of disbelief and punch hard pain. Sleep seems the only comfort, that lying down, snug between cloth and warmth, mind drugged to a doped up momentary forgetting or easing, but still it's there when we awake, the sense of loss, that utter disbelief, that deep down cannot be hidden grief. I wish I were more Stoic like you, my son, my deep philosopher, my silent one; wish I had some philosophic remedy to cure the ache, to soothe the mind, some crutch or stick to tap around like one who's blind, but I have none, none that will ease or remedy the ill of your departure, none to fill the huge chasm between you there in Death's hold and God's grace and me left here sensing loss and the cold breeze of death's breath in my ageing face.
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.
#death#son#father#loss#grief
terry-collett
Written by
terry-collett
English
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem