His stories were laden with realities unknown,
Unspoken and unheard of, until he went away.
Memory is an unkind friend,
Bit by bit, it chips away.
We’re left with a world view,
That’s two parts grey and one part white.
Fridays seem like Thursdays,
And Sundays feel like Tuesdays.
We partake in the joys of others,
For grief is but a four letter word, that subsumes,
That takes away more than we ever bargained for.
The books don’t have stories anymore,
And the poets have nothing new to tell us.
The stars and the moon don’t beget wonder.
Old lovers and their whispers seem misplaced and don’t comfort.
And then all the questions seem urgent,
With the answers lurking, creating shadows of doubt.
But we won’t chase answers today,
I won’t chase answers today.
There are rituals to be followed,
Prayers to be said and crows to be fed.
But the only ritual to follow now,
Is to love all we can, ’til memory robs us blind.