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Too Late.
I want to touch it, to say good bye. But it is too late.
Already they are marching at their slow and steady pace.
Out of the doors, out beyond my reach.
The child in me wants to cry out,
To scream that I have not had chance yet to say goodbye.
That they cannot take you, not yet.
There is still time.
To throw myself at this box and try to pry the lid off to hold you one last time.
But I cannot.
I cannot make the sound come out to call.
And it is too late.
The doors are shutting,
and I feel a part of me that was screaming,
die inside.
I did not say good bye to you, not really.
I was unprepared and un aware that you would leave like that.
That soon you will be nothing but dust.
And that never will I see anything but photographs and memories.
You are gone, and I cannot yet accept that.
My mind screams out contradictions,
that it cannot be true.
And I can do nothing but cling to those by my side and cry silent tears of grief.
This is not right, this is not holy.
To take a loved one like that, to give them pain and suffering like that.
And then to make those left feel the full weight of that grief.
I am but a child wanting to break down and cry for my loss.
For the last sight of that box, your last resting place,
and the heaped flowers that I helped to pick,
marching in a colourful sillhouete out of my sight.
My horizon's do not stretch that far,
and death is beyond my reach.
It is too frightening. And the shutting doors are baring me from seeing the truth.
Of seeing you for one last time.
And all I can do is but weep,
for all that is lost and cannot be seen again.
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