At thirteen you had been in hospital, more times than anyone should be,
On a clear August night you left, and your body set your soul free.
Later we sat dumb in the kitchen, while your mummy poured out tea,
Issued with unlearned regrets, form well-wishers like me.
We shook hands with your father, and recited "sorry for his trouble",
We queued in the reception area, to awkwardly hug your mother.
The young minister gave a short sermon, he spoke words not unkind,
Had choose hymns and prayers for his service, for those left behind.
I watched you build tents, in the garden, at seven years old,
Five years later, your countenance, would turn continually cold.
I had chased you round the block, when we were both young and wild,
Form friends I heard you growing up, oh God my poor child.
I helped carry your innocence in a pine box, down your unpathed lane,
I shed salt water by your still side, my tears shrouded in the rain.
I watched as closer relatives, laid silk roses on the grave,
I tried to remember if I liked you, and asked what had I gave?
We had never talked much, but we shared something that's true,
That same murdering disease, that I had long before you.
Is that why I said nothing, jealous you were the first to go?
That you had escaped? Oh please God, no.
Frightened by what could have; should have; been my own mortality,
But I had defeated it; beated it, but you were not me.
But you didn't want it, but had it, this way,
Was I the only one; to mourn; selfishly,
that day?
|
