What crushing burden pinions me here,
While summer light plays merrily on glass?
Midday. you're at work. Hours slowly pass.
The tick of our old clock grows more severe.
The clock. The fingers on your slowing pulse.
The medic looks up at the lens-like glass,
And shakes his head at what has come to pass.
And then the knife, the rope, the dark impulse.
It's one P.M. You're not at work. You're dead.
The Ankou's fingers tap on window glass.
There have been days like weeks in how they pass,
And dreams of you bring lonely, waking dread.
The tricks I play on my own reeling mind,
Disintegrate and leave me left behind.
Now read Denial Cycle #3
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you must have loved him much...felt write adam..great title as well.. think it is different steps we're going through when we lose someone precious
ReplyDelete"It's one P.M. You're not at work. You're dead.
ReplyDeleteDeath's happy fingers tap on window glass."
ouch! powerful write, sir.. you're quite the sonnet guy, aye?
You made this look effortless. Wow!
ReplyDelete