Father, dying

In your room
There is a presence
There you are in your bed
In your chair
Your being fading with
Every sunset
Disintegrating into ashes
A silhouette in the corner
Getting more pronounced
From smoke into being
Grim smile emerging on the lips
Gaze turned to you
Reluctantly welcoming arm sweep
“Come to me, it is
Finally all right”.

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The name of suffering

At some times in life
Suffering has a name.
A stake in the ground,
A face, an image
Stamped upon the
Existential sorrow that
Cleaves spirit,
Shallows breath,
Narrows vision,
Slithers up to the marrow’s belfry
To pull the rope
Again and again,
Until the ringing has
Replaced all thought,
And all you see
Is the image
Of the name.