My feelings are an abstraction
And my sense of memories restless
The shock to my system is fresh…
And emotions and mental images
Sadness and anger, fatigue and frustration… of a numbness that holds back rage
And all the colors bleeding into a murky burnt brown…
Of love and your beautiful brown eyes and the sound of your laugh
Crashing down in a bloody and bone crushing clatter
The echos fade into this cold foggy morning
Another day, with your ashes in a box.
This isn’t some freaking test.
This isn’t some trial designed to grant me patience
This isn’t punishment for doing wrong
Nor certainly some reward for doing some good.
This isn’t a lesson.
This is the plot. The story line. The narrative…
Exactly as the author wrote it.
And I don’t like where he has taken this story.
But you can’t turn back the page.
Once the ink is dry
and the page read
it is only memories and dust.
photos. stories. a clip of your rendition of Journey…
And a cheap plastic box.
That is where it always ends
And that is all that is ever left
Your voice, your song
The notes of your life
And the words of your story