JohnThey have pulled him from the water.
They've been asking whether he fell in
Or jumped. What does it matter now?
He's dead. My brother John is dead.
A little gentle poking will reveal that he
Had been depressed since back when
We were little kids. A curtain sort of
Covered him. Our parents may have
Put it on him. Both of them were
Grim, and they demanded so much
From their firstborn son, their wounded
Champion, and, when he couldn't cope,
They didn't put their arms around him.
They made snide remarks. They criticized,
And slowly John began to crumble.
In my oldest memories, I see him laughing,
Leading me along the trails beneath
The trees. I see him, like a little brother's
Hero, doing such great things. He
Swung on ropes above the chasm,
Boldly strolled into the drug store,
And back out with stolen goodies,
Which he'd always share with me,
But time and sorrow ate at him,
And, recently, the curtain seemed
To shut the light out more completely.
I could see him drawing off. He may
Have slipped. I doubt he did, but how
Much difference does it make?
He's dead, and, since he's better off.
There isn't any point to asking why.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 143 times
Written on 2019-10-23 at 00:58
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email