Our finality is an awareness borne intuitively,
the inescapable quest of our mortality’s
end, a presences no longer part of this world,
as the tears well up to be shed in farewell.
Hooded, shriveled by Time as the Reaper
may appear in many tales to gather our
souls leaving behind the vessel to be
grieved upon by Loved ones and hypocrites alike,
not a tear have I shed in dissidence ever.
His image appeared to me twice in
one night, a green polo shirt he wore
smiling, looking in his prime, yet
something tore at him as he stares.
Repentance he seeks from a
‘daughter’ wronged so harshly.
Absolution is a gift I will extend
for the unseen One in direct command
of the Reaper should prepare the soul
for journey’s end, yet the child was
not ready yet so I demand,
As I wonder, I prepare his most
cherished grandchild for her
significant loss to be borne,
“Who will standup and narrate
the good you are? ,
“Upon your tombstone, what
will be written?”, I ponder,
watching her sleep in my arms.