LAMENTATIONS.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

Lamentations
are still here,
my son,

sometimes
the long night
seems darker,

the dawn delayed
like some
unrisen Christ;

the bed I lay
as a tomb of grief.
Sometimes

I sense a sea
of memories
sweep over me,

nigh drowning as they
sweep me back and forth
with wave after wave

of sadness of the loss.
Some nights
the sky seems

to press down,
bringing depressive
pressure on my

all too human heart;
some nights I seek
a slit of light

to brighten up
the gloom,
to be an imaginary angel

pushing away
angels of doom;
then sleep may come

and I succumb
to sleeps' fond hold,
then to dream

that you are here,
then not,
then the real,

the poison cup
and I wake up.