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