So many a death we suffer

That we know not which is the ultimate death

Even the last breath itself

Is the mere fulfillment of that which already occured

And the final chapter in a case already closed

But still the dirges we sing never get any sweeter

And the tears we shed never become any less bitter

As each passing second and minute

Carries with it the sad reminder of what could have been

But never can be

And what was that can no longer be


Tears like advent followers of sadism

Revel in the pain of bereavement

And resist the solace of compassionate arms

And offerings to the bereaved

Offered with meaningful condolences

Fail to touch broken hearts

Struggling to make sense of the workings of time

Whose chance stole precious memories

But whose passage is the balm to its deceits wounds


Hope is the missing child on postered walls

Forever elusive, avoiding capture

Leaving hearts in turmoil in aftermaths of emotional wars

That are submerged in surrender to the unknown six feet under

Today the wounds are still too fresh to be understood

But maybe tomorrow the tears we’ve shed

Can make way for more happiness ahead

Maybe…. just maybe….

For in death there is never any certainty

Just hopeful doubts