Will it always be thus?
Grief pain stabs, unguts,
turns and turns;
all ifs and buts.


I sleep in the hope
to see you; have to be
drugged to sleep
and I can't remember,
my son, if I have seen
you or caressed or not;
enough to make my soul rot.


Dawn does not excite;
evening stretches before me
with its orange tang
and mellow
sickening glow.  


What was it like
those final hours
of wakefulness?
Should have been there,
if I’d known, I’d have stayed.


Human mistake
I’m afraid,
at least on my part,
wounded soul,
broken heart.


Your Stoic soul
sails on,
no doubt;
you'd have made
old Seneca proud;
me, too,
the way you coped
with all and more.


You are out
on that eternal sea,
my son,
I’m here
on this
lonesome shore.

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