The victorious beauty of 1991’s ignorant Spring breathed heavily into the soul-white room, seeping through it's weakened barriers (the remorseless silence of drawn curtains) …
(My Dad’s death temporally succeeded this first notion; it was a success. True, he often failed at suppers served on plywood tables and sinned shamefully through too many rye scented Christmas’s, but he overcame all the shards of guilt that the Devil delivered. Death itself was defeated by my Dad’s dying. He perfectly humbled himself before the Human answers of life and more importantly before the Saintly questions of death.)
Not fully aware, I was left behind, staring into the cavity of our remaining living lives. At fourteen years old I was blind and comatose while other more competent people helped with final arrangements for my Father’s graduation. Eventually, without expression, I gravitated back into the familiar haze of time and faces, voices and flowers, and tears and Sunlight. My empty eyes awoke from the hypnotic banality of an ugly brown carpet and away from the diffused glow of an infinite Spring (whispering its unmistakable yet rarely detained lullaby to perhaps myself alone) . I fell towards the sullen, hollowed voices that spoke though mouths filled with viscous dollops of reddish-hued honey until a commanding word successfully floated morosely to the top, and popped through the stifling sweetness and ambiguity. “Hmm what? ” I replied and still reply. I am perpetually shocked by my life’s realest moment and how seemingly unreal it all actually was (was?) .
R.J. Bevans
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-life-and-limp-recollections-of/
