08-17-2024, 03:11 PM
This is really personal; I probably shouldn't be posting it. It's simple and not well considered, but for some reason I feel like it's important to me that people read it. My cousin, only 22, passed last month and I wrote this the night of the funeral, so if discussion of that sort bothers you, please don't read.
In my bedroom
before sleeping
I count all the stars
in the stucco.
Your friend--
or was she a
cousin?--
dressed in flowing
midnight, with guitar
cradled:
she sang that you would be
up there now,
and in every beam
of light and cloud
in the sky,
promised you would be
there now:
in the stars
But,
I think I saw something
there was something
sick in her spit,
a moldering word
or unspoken slight,
that she saw in your
passing,
oh Noah.
I wish I could have thought
of words more quickly.
But,
what can ever be said?
You're gone.
Your beauty, taken from
the world, instead
a cracked and broken
clay vessel, and we know,
we all know,
we'll never see your light
again.
In my bedroom
before sleeping
I count all the stars
in the stucco.
Your friend--
or was she a
cousin?--
dressed in flowing
midnight, with guitar
cradled:
she sang that you would be
up there now,
and in every beam
of light and cloud
in the sky,
promised you would be
there now:
in the stars
But,
I think I saw something
there was something
sick in her spit,
a moldering word
or unspoken slight,
that she saw in your
passing,
oh Noah.
I wish I could have thought
of words more quickly.
But,
what can ever be said?
You're gone.
Your beauty, taken from
the world, instead
a cracked and broken
clay vessel, and we know,
we all know,
we'll never see your light
again.
Please be harsh. I don't take well to praise. If I'm harsh with your poem, that means I liked it.
