These Days

This poem is something new that I tried.

On these days

I cannot sleep.

My mind drifts 

from place to place,

dream to dream,

and back again.

A hand extended

to a young boy

as sweet as honey,

longing for nothing

more than the warmth

of a soft touch.

A mother's hand,

perhaps,

is what the young boy

desired to hold.

Though wherever he

would go,

misfortune would shortly

follow suit.

The hand that the boy

held was of no mother's,

but instead,

all of his sorrows,

and his pain;

manifested as one being.

The young boy

knew of his grave mistake,

but regarded it little.

For he was used to

the pain, by now.

The bony hand,

attached to a certain

foul creature,

known as Death,

grasped the poor

young boy's shoulder.

Death had claimed

his youthful soul

in return for one thing,

and a simple thing at that.

The foolish young boy

had but one small request

to Death, as the air in his lungs

began to fade.

"My mother, you see,"

the boy explained,

"Never got to live

her life to the fullest

because of me."

"So, please,"

a single tear

dropped down the boy's

slender cheek.

"Just let her forget

about me."

Death chuckled,

though it did not seem so,

at the boy's strange request.

"Being forgotten

by those we loved

is a fate much worse

than death could ever be."

Author's Note

Again, this is a bit different than my usual style, so I hope you all enjoy it.