The destination all must face,
Is rarely reached alone.
It matters not a saintly life,
Or many sins atone.
The traveler moves in concert with
Whomever he has drawn.
His entourage, if only one,
Will morn when he is gone.
The final leg has different lengths
For every played out plan.
Be it months, or weeks or days,
No one can know the span.
The shock of sudden death feels like
A punch right to the heart.
So much unsaid and left undone,
"We've time before we part."
The soul of love's gone on to grace,
It's we who feel the leave.
We'll learn to cope and slip around
The hole for which we grieve.
In longer scope, there's those who'slives
Are terminal at best.
Though there's more time for ourgoodbyes,
We'd see them gently rest.
In essence, though we can prepare,
In stutter step or steady,
When the last soft breath is drawn,
We never will be ready.
Richard Higley © Jan. 09, 2017
YOU ARE READING
Never Ready
PoetryNo matter how prepared one is for a loved one's demise, One is never ready for the end.
