A FEW HOURS AFTER.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

A few hours after I left,‭
my son,‭ ‬you‭
died for the first time.‭

I sift my brain‭
to recall what you wore‭
that last time.‭

Black jeans,‭
black tee-shirt,‭
your favourite colour‭
or lack of‭
as some might say.‭

The night gear‭
they gave you‭
the night before‭
out of sight.‭

Neither of us aware,‭
as we spoke,‭
that it would be‭
the last talk.‭

Had I known,‭
I would not have left,‭
would have held you back‭
from jaws‭ ‬of death‭
with every fibre‭
of my being.‭

I wish I had stayed,‭
wish I had said more‭
and more deeper.‭

If wishes were pebbles‭
I could fill a beach.‭

You now gone‭
to another place,‭
near us some say,‭
just out of reach.‭  

I was there‭
at your second death‭;
you in a coma,‭
unaware,‭
or so it seemed.‭

Then your heart flat-lined‭;
all was still‭;
that world we knew ended.‭

That aspect without you‭
seems to lack,‭
like a modern painting‭
oil painted canvas‭
completely black.‭