|Photo by Jose Rosa|
Not all poetry is pretty,
or about beauty, or what makes us happy.
Some is sad
the way the night snuffs out a day
that will never return,
or the way a flower wilts succumbing
Some is about life, how it ends,
like a star, once alive with fire,
leaves a black hole that poetry can't fill.
But I don't think there's a poem
about you, Sheryl,
how death comfortably set in
for days before
its stench permeated the questions and fear
of those who found you.
I didn't know you enough to grieve.
Still, I wish I could write a tribute
in appreciation of all you may have been,
something to help you rest,
in case that's really the goal of death.
I think of you, lifeless now.
Wonder if I do write such a poem
will someone read it?
(Submitted to Poets United.)