I found him lying on his bed,
hair tousled and with a sweet smile.
I realized that he was dead.
I knew this was no show of guile.
A lifeless shell fueled with faith
betrayed a muted mask of wraith.
Though none, I called Emergency.
They asked me blankly, “Are you sure?”
No breath, stiff limbs, lividity –
a terminal illness, no cure.
“I’m sure (as Hell!), yes positive!”,
assuming that, the causative.
All three came as well as ER,
coroner, sheriff, mortician.
One to play the body’s chauffer.
One to judge the man’s condition.
One to say there was no more breath.
One to announce the “formal” death.
A cold harshness to the moment,
finality so sure and straight.
No use to sit down and lament.
Too late to try to clear the slate.
It is what it is, as they say.
Nothing further to do but pray.
An homage of his joy and bliss;
his ardour for life and nature.
His pure love for God not remiss;
his place within Heaven secure.
A faith-based life and in the end
all he wanted was one true friend.
*Other – Sextilla: (1) Six-line stanzas of eight-syllable lines rhymed either aabccb or ababcc…poetscollective.org
(2) A Sp. stanza form of six octosyllabic or shorter lines. In the classic period, the usual rhyme schemes were abbaab...oxfordreference.com
Linda Alice Fowler