death; grief; love;

Ash: The Color

Ash: The Color


He turns pale

More and more each day.

He grows weaker

More and more each day.

Soon we'll lose him.

Why must God try to

Steal him from me?

His heart is aching, giving out.

He coughs

A smoker's cough.

There's more tears each day.

His wife weaps at the one thought she hates most.

He's turning grey.

The pain grows stronger

More and more each day,

To the point where it's unbearable.

He's the color of ash.

It's time...

He's touching death.

He must walk down the long hall,

Toward the lighted room.

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7 weeks; 9 years

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Dedicated to U

tear drops upon my cheeks
broken hearted in my bed
I lost a part of you, a part of me
not yet human
not yet flesh
it grew for 7 weeks,
7 weeks it was ours.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Not every women can share something this intimate. Not every women speaks of this devistated tragedy. No matter what a women says, losing a child at any stage in life is with them till the end of time.
My condolences to those who have lost a child, to fathers who never got a chance to spend time with their child.
It is life. It is a process hard to swallow.

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Death is but a doorway

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Requiescat in pace

Death is but a doorway,
a shadow through a wall
and often when we lose loved ones-
we feel that we could fall;
through a hole of darkness,
a fitful unrest;
of always trying to find the
purpose of life-
at its worst and best.

Through pain we can appreciate pleasure
our life before death,
love before hate,
hope and faith before bequest;
because we have learnt
death is only a doorway
and our beautiful spirit is gliding
through a wall
towards a blinding light
which has peace all around;
where only love, laughter and happiness
can be found.

Pain will always be felt
by the ones left behind,
but the "Spirits" of our loved ones
would want to ease our minds;
in the knowledge that they are within
God's beautiful place
and they have left far behind
our darting rat-race.
In the unrelinquished dark,
we should always remember:
our loved ones are always there to talk to-
when we are walking alone in the park.

David Wakeham ©1992

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