Some nights, my son,
I dream of you in some scene
unfamiliar, for some reason
unfortold at least to me,
and it is the you I used to know
before the fatal end; yet I am unaware
( as in dreams it seems)
that you are here no more,
maybe off in some other sphere,
some other shore.
I hugged you in one dream,
so close I felt your body's warmth,
feeling a sense of strange relief
that you were there, until you
disappeared like melted snow
and the reality sank in
that I must let you go.
Some nights, my son,
I search my dreams for you,
through the dark corridors
of your final days, walk past
the room I left you last,
look again and again at you
lying there comatosed,
eyes closed, wired up to machines
and lights and sounds
like one who dozed.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
Some nights, my son,
I dream of you in some scene
unfamiliar, for some reason
unfortold at least to me,
and it is the you I used to know
before the fatal end; yet I am unaware
( as in dreams it seems)
that you are here no more,
maybe off in some other sphere,
some other shore.
I hugged you in one dream,
so close I felt your body's warmth,
feeling a sense of strange relief
that you were there, until you
disappeared like melted snow
and the reality sank in
that I must let you go.
Some nights, my son,
I search my dreams for you,
through the dark corridors
of your final days, walk past
the room I left you last,
look again and again at you
lying there comatosed,
eyes closed, wired up to machines
and lights and sounds
like one who dozed.
A father talks to his dead son
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