THERE WAS NEVER PANIC

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON

There was never
that sense of rush
or panic with you,

my son, you my
Stoic one,
even death never

seemed to faze you,
at least what you knew
of it that night,

while  I was elsewhere
and you were there far away,
having seen you

earlier that day
before that creeping death
took hold.

How to make sense
of your dying,
how to put together

the broken up puzzle
of your leave taking,
how to get my head

around that fact of you
having gone into death's
cold arms, gone off

without fear, not sure
I can, my dear.
The fact I wasn't there

beside you at the end,
haunts me like an ever
repeating theme,

like a repetitive
melody or face
in a bad dream;

the fact that you
had three heart attacks
in such quick succession,

each time bringing you back,
like one from over
a deep chasm,

only to have you slip over
while our eyes watched
and your hands and soul

had gone from out sight,
gone from our vision,
slipped away

into another world
of being,
where you are

but we are
not knowing
or seeing.