Finding Loss
When we first know the beginning of loss -
Is it at child’s last grasp at fantasy?
Or perhaps when discipline is a cause
To follow in harrowed lunacy?
When is loss the first and last infancy
To still the pained soul into a dark place?
And years and more years of cold dormancy
Become crying eyes of a pained blank face.
This then; a heart calloused beyond a trace
And meanings transcend a life’s final truth:
That a day is no more than just one lace
That ties age; loss to a fanciful youth.
This then - shall not be taken as uncouth
Nor as discordant notes to a love song
But instead - meditations for kind ruth:
That all is forgiven. Life is not long.
