I Die Some More

for Eileen Conrad, to Marcy Howard

How do we, define life, when life, has been compressed,
Into, long lost memories, and  short lived, success,
As hope, becomes, a prison, yet a prison, with no bars,
Only one person, interests me, through, the always growing scars.
Could, you, attribute it, to that thing, we all call fate,
But, does it really, justify, the wasted meal, on your plate,
Though, the day is spent, hoping, she has a good day,
Why do thoughts, for myself, just seem, to get in the way.
Each day, I make my journey, with a sense, of constant dread,
To add, to that sea, of pain, seeing her, in that bed,
Nothing, can really change, what’s happening, to her,
And there is, no master plan, to which, we could refer.
Do, they really know, the pain, that I bear,
Watching them slip away, in a sea, of growing fear,
Am, I being selfish, if I shield them, from the truth,
Or maybe, I should ask, what happened, to our youth.
Did, I make, the right choices, is there, any way, to know,
As i look, into those eyes, and my anguish, seems, to grow,
The forecast, for the future, more pain, is what’s in store,
And as, I watch them, walk away, each day, I die some more.



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