For (Poem)

FOR he is gone.
Far from this life
Indeed, non-existent
Yet bearing of no strife
May I be.
The rain glimmers as it glances its way
Down the window-pane
And the boom of the music I hear
In the background
Distracts my attention ever-more.
But distraction is welcome; ‘tis a way away
From my heart’s still grief, if only for
Dripping. Endless. Carefree and despairing
Goes the water upon my window.
And with beauty, and free indeed does it
Yet worsen the plight of one such as me.
For in spite of its beauty
And that of all else
He is gone.
As gifted and as gracious
As may be my life
I cannot feel
For he is gone.
And of course – most disdainfully
Of course
He is never
To return.
And I, most atheist be I
Can know of course
That I am never
To join him.
I did write once
Of a ‘thunder silent mime’.
Thus, this the path of my life
Has become
Though more akin to a broken
Forever out of time.
And every time the bells are chimed
In the city nearby
May there be one toll of the bell
For every tear I cry
In the pain and the depth of the
Of it all.
For gone is the one upon whom I
Could call
In times such as this.
Who in the past would make giants look
Evermore small
In the past that is gone
In a time of bliss.
But now he has departed
This world and so, with it
My heart.
I remain as a being, of life just now
In which he played
So perhaps safer be it to cease
My reminiscence
Perhaps safer be it that I did not
To contemplate simply my own
Without his playing of a part.
For the life I lead
Must be my own.
For I cannot stop long to grieve
For I must allow him to go.
For now and for
Ever more.
But he is gone.
And my heart also and hence with it my
Without this man
I cannot live.
And as the broken clock continues to tick
As on his bed
This man grew evermore sick
And as he saw the dimming dark din of
The lights
Blow out, bow out one final time
That I saw in his eyes
a reflection
Of the quiet and solemn and
Peaceful and thunderous
Of his life.
And of mine.

Literature Poetry

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