Sunday, October 7, 2012

The Unnamed Poem

I think about you a lot these days, The things you said and all your ways. The sound of your voice in laughter and song, Just hearing it I felt nothing was wrong. You’re just a memory, alive and well, In my stories I often tell, Of the things you taught me and funny things you said. Yes alive and well, but only in my head. At my table you sat, seems like yesterday. We drank coffee and talked away. I made you a bagel. I won’t forget. That I would get burned was your worrying fret. Good times have come, wish I could tell you about. Hard times have come and brought lots of doubt. And others have left us since you died. You would have sorrowed; you would have cried. But, death has no respect for souls, It rips through lives leaving holes, That will probably never be mended again; There will always be this emptiness within. “Death is swallowed up in victory,” we’re told. We’ll meet again on a street of pure gold. But, were is the comfort for the here adn now? Once again on my knees I must bow.

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