Our Friend
Our friend lived in the hall,
our friend has lost it all.
All of our training and all of our men,
couldn't put our friend together again.
I. Couldn't put our friend together again.
Questions stalk my mind, running the day through.
What could have happened?
What should have happened?
And is there a difference between the two?
What more could I have done?
What more should I have done?
For his sake, I hope the answer is naught;
I don't know if I can bear any other thought.
I know, honestly, that I will never know the answer;
I hope that beleaguered wondering won't be a cancer.
But I know otherwise, see myself with more clarity;
life has taught me grief's harrowing verity.
I know that I can deal, can take it,
but wish that, as fine, I needn't fake it.
The younger me inside can't believe his eyes,
doesn't want to accept that the older one yet cries.
A soft rain falls as I close in on old goals,
stealing in to soften the blow, and out again on misty soles.
22 days, and I say goodbye to this Corps;
22, and his door will be next to mine no more.
One more for him, and one for the road;
may there be one for us when we've followed.
An all too soon goodbye to our friend,
who left with an all too early end.
Copyright © Andy Sprouse | Year Posted 2016
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