Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Will it always be thus?
Grief pain stabs, unguts,
turns and turns;
all ifs and buts.

I sleep in the hope
to see you; have to be
drugged to sleep
and I can't remember,
my son, if I have seen
you or caressed or not;
enough to make my soul rot.

Dawn does not excite;
evening stretches before me
with its orange tang
and mellow
sickening glow.

What was it like
those final hours
of wakefulness?
Should have been there,
if I’d known, I’d have stayed.

Human mistake
I’m afraid,
at least on my part,
wounded soul,
broken heart.

Your Stoic soul
sails on,
no doubt;
you'd have made
old Seneca proud;
me, too,
the way you coped
with all and more.

You are out
on that eternal sea,
my son,
I’m here
stuck
on this
lonesome shore.

good theme and capture
you do good work dadio

please pardon my insensitivity
I have the soul of a bean counter
not a poet

so I wonder at what cost does poetry come to me
this thing I need to survive, to carry on
I am only sorry for your loss but grateful for the poetry
and hope it is some comfort to know your bring grief to share
to help others bear their own

Thank you, still-trucking.