Those Who Are Left

A hand within a hand
The fingers interlaced
A redness rings the eyes
Her pain wails from her face

Her eyes stay mostly closed
Furtively seeking escape
But a life beneath the lids
Flashes what can’t be replaced

Yet at its normal clip
The world still moves along
Despite the torn horizon
Even breathing feels so wrong

Indeed the sufferings ended
For one who least deserved it
And now the pain will set upon
Those left here to endure it

The Realities We Try Not to Think About

Today was the first time I pictured a funeral.

The hearing of poems and songs I secretly socked away next to my hope.

The ones I always denied would have any meaning to me, not really.

I can hear them blaring through the cheap speakers, crackling at crucial moments in the verses. This would be my coping mechanism, my release from sadness parsed out in tons upon me. The net on my eyes that could catch my tears before they fell.

The pops, the hisses like pressure valves, the distortion my ohm.

The barrier that could hoard my grief away from those who are trying with all their might to share it but never could, not really.

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