WITHOUT YOU.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON

Without you,
my son,
there's just
the indentations
on the bed
where once you lay;
the echo of the words
you used to say;
the sun's gone in
and left the sky grey;
and the words,
like ancient manuscripts,
crumble in my mouth
as I try to pray;
time drags its feet
from night to dull day.

Without you,
my son,
the room's an empty space;
the mirror
where once you gazed
is missing your face;
and mealtimes,
long after you died,
I still laid your place,
and I feel
an emptiness
when I ask
for God's grace.

Without you,
my son,
my heart seems
torn in two;
my mind
a bog mire
of stagnant thoughts
of what to do;  
I try to sing a song,
but it ends up
a dark depressing blue;
I go to places
where once you went too,
but you aren't there,
just a wind blew.

Without you,
my son,
there's a hole
in my aged heart;
my wounded soul
is torn apart,
thinking of
each aspect of you,
ticking off a chart,
naming each
precious part.

Without you,
my son,
all things
seem dull and dark;
life has lost
its spark
without you.