Solitude, dust, fossils
from forsaken family footprints,
trails weeping the mind’s sweat
now drunken blood.
Dark and lifeless rain
cheapening the will to survive,
drenching away the sweat to fight,
shackling bitterness to our eyes,
enslaving then devouring and any stubborn will.
Only between dreams
chapters in books
is death reprieved,
when the breath quickens
inside the rubbish of razorblades and bullets.
Death does not allow alternatives,
options such as brilliance, logic, tender memories.
Death refuses to concede visions,
riffs that improvise unburdened rivers.
Death tolerates only tainted gardens,
cursed fruit,
bitter tears swimming along rabidly.
Death is a lonesome incarceration of the heart
stifling the child inside,
strangling any inclination to imagine,
any passion to fly,
any urge to stagger on seeking some shelter.
Self-murder flowers no angels,
bequeaths no kids playing tag
or hanging out after baseball practice
or pasting carnations into scrapbooks,
allows no memories of swinging hips,
or girls in pigtails with dripping ice cream cones,
or school bells banging
young minds bonging.
The residue of suicide leaves behind
only puddles and sinkholes,
feckless hurtful rumors,
havoc and disbelief becoming gloom,
haunted survivors,
somnambulists dredging for splinters to gather
desperate to unravel them,
desperate to rebuild a life lost.
Suicide breeds strangled voices that linger
remaining unanswered
echoing back at every turn,
enunciating tragic questions without mouths,
and answers minus zero.
Death by suicide will linger
long past the grieving crowds,
beyond countless holidays
cardless anniversaries,
long past living rooms and rooftops
clotheslines and fresh baked bread
blueberry fields and golden retrievers.
And the loss will solidify
when memories cannot be recognized,
when swollen lips get sealed,
when bloodshot eyes forbid sleep
when another parent’s laughter cannot be heard,
when a child’s first song falls on numbed ears.
From an early morning window
my eyes search the overnight snow drifts
the dripping from half frozen branches
as tears wend their way along into the gutter,
and it is then I am reminded
tragedies that cannot be justified
may never be resolved,
because inherent in Death
Life is always there,
significantly smoldering along,
defying yet defining the way.
6/6/16
Port St. Lucie