My uncle Ernest passed away a week ago,
at 94 he was the last of a generation.
"Bye bye, my sweetheart!"
He whispered,
As I held his hand
While he died ,
Just as I had held
My father's
And my brother's
Before him.
But my mother
Died alone,
In a sheer panic,
After burning
The supper.
Her heart broken,
Cataclysmically
Splintering
Her thousand wounds
Into oblivion.
She welcomed
Her death,
Like an old friend,
Saying her time was up,
And she had to go,
And I never said
Goodbye.
She gasped her last,
Grasping Death
With a welcoming
Hand.
Speaking through tears,
We swallow their deaths,
Eyes brimming,
We exchange looks,
Through flooded eyes
And burning nostrils.
Poetry by Esti D-G
Read 572 times
Written on 2010-03-12 at 22:29
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at 94 he was the last of a generation.
Ernest's Hand
"Bye bye, my sweetheart!"
He whispered,
As I held his hand
While he died ,
Just as I had held
My father's
And my brother's
Before him.
But my mother
Died alone,
In a sheer panic,
After burning
The supper.
Her heart broken,
Cataclysmically
Splintering
Her thousand wounds
Into oblivion.
She welcomed
Her death,
Like an old friend,
Saying her time was up,
And she had to go,
And I never said
Goodbye.
She gasped her last,
Grasping Death
With a welcoming
Hand.
Speaking through tears,
We swallow their deaths,
Eyes brimming,
We exchange looks,
Through flooded eyes
And burning nostrils.
Poetry by Esti D-G
Read 572 times
Written on 2010-03-12 at 22:29
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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