The Horror of Death for the Living

It’s much easier to write about

The triter things in life

Like turbulent sex poems

And my druggie boyfriend….

When I try

To write about

That little blue child

I held for 30 minutes in my arms

Before they stashed him away into

A cold dark room, where he was more

Alone somehow and colder

Somehow

And you kept the beanie on his head

Because you were afraid he would

Be chilled….

This remembrance;

50 daggers to my heart

I can’t let myself

Think about it.  

Or when I try to write

About the chaotic solitude

And confusion

At my brother’s funeral

Everyone strolling the graveyard

Like the walking dead

With shattered shards of glass

Piercing holes into their brains

Because he’s dead now

And we don’t know who we are anymore

Our world split in two

And the graves sit idly

In the frozen, hard earth

Oblivious and obstinate to our

Suffering.

I write   

To refrain from feeling

These heavy lacerations  

And the holes in my soul

Where I am no longer whole  

That ventilate the

Horror of living