Video Wednesday: Similes

About the untimely death of my youngest  brother.

Like Similes.

 

Your mother cries as

one by one like

similes of you we come.

Your wife is dressed in

bright red crepe but

even this don’t catch

your gaze.

They have

powdered and painted your

stale flesh

pink as health itself on

sunlit beach in

basking afternoon but

sometime in the

quiet night you

slithered from your skin

and disappeared. We

investigators are numb for

clue. We

inspect your skin like

museum artifact

somehow empty

curiosity of fate.

So this is what the

Woodstock child has

come to:

Tumbleweed in a

satin box.

The talk is done

the prayer is done

now for the

roses one by one.

Your wife your mother

your brother Paul, my

love for you the

shame of fools.

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