There are times
when the night
seems too long
my dead son;
days that bring
that constant
reminder
of the night
your heart stopped
and started
those three times,
so I read,
then the fourth
time next day
you were dead.
Twenty nine
is no age,
my dear son,
but death's no
respecter
of such things,
has no rules
to obey:
years or months,
weeks or day.
A strong grip
is grief's hold,
my big son,
chokes throat,
waters eyes,
pains sad heart,
numbs dull brain
with deep pain.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
There are times
when the night
seems too long
my dead son;
days that bring
that constant
reminder
of the night
your heart stopped
and started
those three times,
so I read,
then the fourth
time next day
you were dead.
Twenty nine
is no age,
my dear son,
but death's no
respecter
of such things,
has no rules
to obey:
years or months,
weeks or day.
A strong grip
is grief's hold,
my big son,
chokes throat,
waters eyes,
pains sad heart,
numbs dull brain
with deep pain.
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.
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