Two Dying Men
Father and Son tragedies.
There are two dying men in my home.
One needs help, the other needs home.
One seems strong, the other is frail,
One pushes through, the other has bailed.
Blood is blood, however it seems,
United by bond, by a distant breeze.
In the bed, the two of them lay,
Not a word, neither one prays.
Both on meds, hanging by the edge,
One is dead, and so is the other, in bed.
One is breathing the way of life, one takes sorrow in his own strife.
But both are dying and struggling in deed.
As love is dying and both are weak.
Through the week, of ponder and pain,
A distant breeze always remains.
