I am not sure I know yet,

and I am sure that I do not understand,

the depths of your sorrow,

your loss,

your absence;

there is no succor for abandonment.


I reach out my hands towards you,

but you recoil,

as if I were some kind of asp, or cobra.

I am not,

so confusion sews through my brain,

like a tremulous seamstress.

Now, I feel lost as well.


Calling back my better nature,

sit myself in your place briefly,

just to taste the salt of your sorrow

and know you are genuine;

for pain

is fire,

and fire

is clean.


I love you,

but I wield no force

great enough to sustain you.

I cannot bring back

that which you have lost,

nor can I offer platitudes

of formidable measure

for your pain,

but I can tell you one thing;

I can share a story,

of a woman who lost a son,

of a man who lost a brother,

of a people who lost a leader

of a man

who lost His life

to take all our pain.


He died

and lived again,

to show us that death is not the end.

Whatever it is,

it is not the end.


So cry your tears

and I will sit here with you.

I cannot save you,

that cheque’s already cashed.

I will be with you,

in the morning

and the evening

and I will tell you

the only thing I know:


death is not the end.




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