TheBanyanTree: Calling Hours

[LLDeMerle]

I

A storm 
is the perfect weather 
for calling hours.   
Cold harsh tears slashing 
the sky with savage anger 

or snowflakes 
falling fast, racing 
one another, piling up, 
choking tread with icy 
slush, dripping slop splattering 
everywhere.

It's only fitting 
It should slither
inside boots and up legs.  
It sets the tone for misery.



II


His Marine portrait
looked back at us 
from the casket, showing us 
who he'd been, a lovely, robust 
young man, before AIDS
ate him up, drained him desolate 
shrivelled his rich, full lips 
into thin slips of leather.


"He was a beautiful child, too,"
says my sister, his friend 
"a special soul 
such a kind and loving boy..." 


Like walking wreckage 
we mourn what's wasted
mostly what will never happen
when our loves leave us 

With no more living 
emaciated among us
his head rests on satin 
medals pinned on the pillow
next to his face 
and what drove Ron destructive 
still remains
his secret.



LLDeMerle