'Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.'
— Kait Rokowski
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"So when do you move on?
From this? This twisted reality no one wanted to enter?"
The old man smiled sadly.
"You don't move on from death, love."
"You carry it with you
for the rest of your life,
until it's your time to go.
Then all that sadness mixes
with all your sadness,
and gets released
into the universe."
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Dedicated to the boy I watched grow up. I can still feel your hand in mine from when you were so young, I used to help you cross the street. I remember telling you that you were almost like a little brother. I hope, that from somewhere, you can see all the people who are still awake for you tonight, and count the tears on your mother's face.
You will be missed and we're all heartbroken to see you go.
You were a good one, kid.
Rest in peace.
-July 16th, 2017: for the boy whose name will haunt us all.
-Autumn
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Hiraeth
PoetryHireath: (n) A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. For the home I haven't yet returned to. ***************************** A book of poems and the occasional response to writing prompts. Or both. My es...
