Early Mourning
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My very close friend, a brilliant mind and poet, committed suicide about 12 years ago. His poetry is what I have left and I search his words from time to time.
Early Mourning
I sift through his Taoist rants
searching the brilliance and madness
for something to make sense; to inspire.
And he does not insult me
with the dust of dead men
though dust is what remains.
Ash falls through my fingers,
as promised, plenty of his own decay,
pure and uncontaminated,
his spirit whispering remembrance;
his legacy blowing in the wind
captured in my heart and lungs.
Copyright © Thvia Shetley | Year Posted 2010
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