NIGHT TOO LONG.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON

There are times
when the night
seems too long

my dead son;
days that bring
that constant

reminder
of the night
your heart stopped

and started
those three times,
so I read,

then the fourth
time next day
you were dead.

Twenty nine
is no age,
my dear son,

but death's no
respecter
of such things,

has no rules
to obey:
years or months,

weeks or day.
A strong grip
is grief's hold,

my big son,
chokes throat,
waters eyes,

pains sad heart,
numbs dull brain
with deep pain.