I wrote this for an English assignment just recently about the death of my sister and how it's affected me.  I wanted to share it with all of you, because I may not be the only one who feels this way about a loved one's death. It's strange, the grieving process. Some days I'm ok. Some days I'm not.

Here it is:

It was a warm Sunday,

a quiet weekend,

a day like any other.


Lightning strikes.


The phone rings.

I answer.

She was crying.


Tears rained,

across crashing cellular waves.

A voice cracked.

“She's dead.”

“She's dead.”



like a porcelain doll,

an innocence beyond repair.

Its pieces scattered.



So lost.

Yet awake.

Awake to a reality,

I don't want to live.


Lightning strikes.


I don't stand outside

as the storm rages.

I flee for shelter,

but closed off,

secreted away from the world

that is howling outside

in the frightening dawn

in the bone-chilled mourning.


I find a roiling river of fire

erupting with pyroclastic

flows of hate.

I find a swamp fetid

with the decaying dreams

of an unlived life.

I find a small child

wailing in the dark

for a comfort that he

knows is gone,

a comfort as effective

as the pleas of a woman

who knows that she is about to die.


Lightning strikes.

Thunder shakes my very being.


The storm has passed.

The skies have cleared,

but still the waters flow.

They cover the shelter

that hides my rage

that hides my misery

that hides me


The mud,

the silt,

the sludge,

Cements the vault.

A concrete coffin

buried at unfathomable depths


Rolls of thunder shake me.


But it does not come from the sky.

For I have mastered the winds

and can brave any storm.

With my sword by my side

and courage in my heart

there is nothing that I fear

from these long days of

wandering my ocean.


Except myself.

Except my failure.


Rolls of thunder

reverberate in the depths.


What good is my bravado now?

The strength of my arm fails

when pitted against the past.

This courage I have cultivated

lies dessicated and withered

upon a sun-beaten shore.


In my chest it lies

limp, wasted.


Lightning strikes.


But in my chest,

it still beats.


I know what I must do.

I know where I must go.

I plunge into depths

I have long neglected.


The darkness envelopes.

The abyss swallows.

The cold seeps.

The oxygen in my lungs

screams for release.


Below, I expected

a barren waste

covered in mud,

in silt,

in sludge,

What awaits is chaos

a conflict to rend

my humanity

my sanity

my negligence.


Little sister,

Would you kindly

save me from this

art-deco horror story?

Because this armor suit

that I've been living in

is cracked

and it's going to implode.

Little Sister,

Would you kindly

save me from this

leaking madness?

Because this leak

promises to drown me

Because I have drowned myself

without you


Little Sister,

Would you kindly save –




Except it's me

who's supposed to save you.


And I couldn't.

Views: 174

Comment by Strega on September 18, 2013 at 8:03pm

That is very powerful, and quite beautiful in the saddest kind of way.  Thank you for sharing it.

Comment by H3xx on September 18, 2013 at 10:47pm

Damn. I hear bongos and cymbals crashing in my head, with an electric guitar screeching in pain. You're good at this.

Comment by _Robert_ on September 18, 2013 at 11:35pm

This beautiful poem reminded me of my time down in south florida when I first learned how frail life really is and the helplessness of it all.

Comment by Sagacious Hawk on September 19, 2013 at 12:05am

You must be more musically inclined than I am, H3xx. I don't hear any music.

Comment by Suzanne Olson-Hyde on September 19, 2013 at 5:26am
Just beautiful, heart wrenching I heard drums and lightening. I think pain like yours, pain like that, never really goes away, you just learn to cope with it - and makes one more empathetic to other peoples feelings and plights.


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