A Road not walked alone

So, as the preachers reads, his words ring out like a distant echoing voice

These hollow feelings consuming me and leaving me little choice,

I cannot stay to hear these words and I know that I have to leave

I need to find a quite space where I can rest and try to grieve.

He asks: “Death where is your sting….” And suddenly I am back

I emerge, from the depths of thought, I am ready to attack.

I want to scream: “Can you not see? How is it you don’t feel?”

These tears I cry, the sobs I heave, to me Death’s sting is real.

I drift again, my mind flashing back, all the comfort words I’ve heard

They flooded in from the very moment I was told my Dad was dead.

I couldn’t understand it yet, but people called and came around

with sympathy and empathy, with hollow useless sounds.

I raise my head and find the strength to finally search the crowd.

There are many here who loved my Dad, although nothing’s said aloud

I see that I am not alone and that the sting of death has stung

The red rimmed eyes, the running tears, the pain in everyone.

Death’s Sting is real I know that now and can see it everywhere

This pain is more than I ever thought, much more than I can bear.

But now I realise I am not alone, this needn’t be a lonely road,

Friends, colleagues and family all are here to share the load.

© 2019 thedrunkenpoet