they are made to last.
While others come
to find their way,
but always seem to pass.
We contemplate the passing
while we hear your children
call your name.
And then, as each to each you go,
to give last reference
to a fame you still deny,
we stand untethered to the thought
of futures dimming into night.
This is the last day’s light we’ll see with you.
Despite our efforts to dismiss
the things we know we’ll have to do,
we cannot contemplate this change.
And though some things will still go on;
as beds are made in morning light
and voices call to soothe some pain,
there is rejection that the dawn
could rise without your spoken name.
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