Two Years

Two years

of repeated tears.

 

I see your face

in another place.

 

A life ends:

every day blends

into another

to smother

effusions,

the harsh intrusions

of reality and death

that suck our breath.

 

We grieve,

we peeve.

 

Nothing brings you back

from the crack

of elusiveness,

the conclusiveness

of death.

 

One’s last breath

is the ultimate

not the penultimate;

it’s the finality,

the banality.

 

I act strong

though I long

to race

and not face

another day

of grey;

I’d end the song

were I that strong.

 

Hearts don’t always heal.

 

We can’t always kneel

to pray,

to produce a ray

of sunshine

to aid a wilting vine.

 

Stems strive

to thrive,

but all good things die

no matter how well they fly.

 

And so it was with you,

my son, who grew

but only to thirty-six.

 

Your heart not to fix,

your death to come

while we were numb,

unaware and

unable to swear

because the end

did transcend

rosy illusions

and delusions

that you’d remain

to forever reign

in life

without strife.

 

Instead it’s us

in this life

of strife.

 

We cuss

and cry

and ask why

you had to go

instead of grow.

 

Matthew

 

Rest in Peace, my Sweet Son.

I miss you with each breath

and still can’t believe you’re not here.

April 28, 1980-March 11, 2017

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