May it be – II

TRIAL

A POEM

Descent from heavens to test my faith,

A trial of enormous ferocity

In your absence does my creed quiver,

Bid high, fake gods, in this sinuosity

.

Not my child, not him, no he can’t be dead

‘tis not a dream, I wish, misled

Now a constant sorrow, an endless dread,

Whence ruled your happy jocosity

.

This powerless, feeble, wasted fate,

And the talk of Eden, that ceaseless prate,

all deeds stored on a lasting slate,

All hail High Judge, Pomposity.

.

Tall mount if my pain were a rock designed

A light so fiery it would turn you blind

A deafening roar were my screams enshrined

An art of grand sumptuosity

.

Your sins are lost, rank high, may it be,

May it be a life of eternal glee,

Awaits you, expects you, a medal may it be

Prithy pity my plight, my loquacity

 

May it be – I

LOSS

a poem

Time you cruelty, thou never stopped,

The beating of my heart, did you see?

Like a pouring rain from that frail they dropped

Drops of blood mourning who ceased to be

In plain sight is your passing still,

Acceptance a constant rejected plea

What calms the storm that brews within,

if the winds of turmoil renew their spree?

Like a wilted rose your body lies,

Your fragrance fresh of the death decree.

That hearty garden reduced to this

What a beastly assault to my prairie

Carefully tread on this path of loss

Here lay pieces of my shattered world in scree

Gone, when naught a warning came,

A drought to a rising fearsome sea.

My trembling lips sore from these cries,

Cry still you find all triumph, may it be

May it be you eat from the fruits of Eden,

May it be in death thou find thee free

MAY IT BE – Prologue

Everything stopped moving yesterday – ever since that call, the world came to a standstill. I don’t remember what I am doing throughout this time, the only memory I have is broken into screens where I see what’s happening around me, as if I didn’t live those moments myself but somebody put them into my head, asking me to accept it as reality.

That call – something about death, but it couldn’t be true;

the ride to the hospital, surely it’s not true;

the ride back home, is it true?;

nothing;

and then: this shroud?

My 17 years old son?