the wake

Here, in this solemn parade of sorrow,
Faces blur, voices merge, a sea of pity.
They come, they go, each with comfort to borrow,
But their words, mere whispers, in the void so gritty.

My boy, my son, just ten winters old,
Your laughter, now a memory, echoes faint.
In your room, your toys, your stories untold,
Lie silent, as my heart contends with its taint.

Time, the thief, first it gave, now it takes,
Leaves me naught but shadows in its loom.

Their words, meant to soothe, to ease, to mend,
Fall upon my ears like autumn's dead leaves.
For what balm exists for a heart that won't bend,
Or a tide of tears that inwardly heaves?

The sky weeps with me, its grey a shroud,
A canvas where my soul's despair is drawn.
James, my son, I cry your name aloud,
In the quiet of my mind, where I am forlorn.

A light snuffed out, no reason, no rhyme,
In this cruel play, where death sings the tune.

Here, in this corner, I find my retreat,
From the platitudes that offer no release.
My heart, a drum with a missing beat,
Yearns for the silence, for a moment's peace.

In my mind's eye, you run, you leap, you soar,
Unfettered by the world's harsh, clenching fist.
In dreams, I hold you, forevermore,
A father's love, in the mist, persists.

So let them speak, their words of hollow cheer,
For none can touch the grief that's mine to bear.