Inertia
There were so many things.
All off them unsaid.
The room between us,
bare unforgiving,
the silence unbearable,
his rhymic breathing
a broken clock,
counting down the waiting
deep into the emptiness
of my prayers raging
through choices not made.
Me sitting by his bed
until he was dead.
There were so many things,
that remained unsaid.
Copyright © Bernard Frey | Year Posted 2013
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