Stepping Out Slowly
I couldn't come to visit you,
After we followed up behind you,
And the four men carrying;
They really had no right to.
Some difficult path that was, wasn't it,
Putting you into box, then leaving you,
Lowered under turf?
I thought my gaunt expression then,
Would sink like turf should. Put away,
Forget; the buried soil, the rot.
And yet, it still catches me occasionally,
When I think of the last complete picture
Before this. I cannot go back
At you sticking up, erect; refusing death.
I will think some allusive thought,
That you are up and about walking
The mass of graves late at night,
Refusing to sink.
How do I handle your still fresh grave
And settle you to sleep in my heart?
I cannot bare coming back with you
Running rampant through my veins.
There is no relief in putting your face
Away in boxes where I do not cease to see
You reminding me constant,
As every beat, you add a murmur too.
When I have trouble finding your mark,
Your precise spot, I will visit again
Your plot that set you out from every stone,
Is ground, just land that settles down
And makes it right.
Everyone the same, today, and
Tomorrow's light.
Copyright © Louis Payne | Year Posted 2008
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