Kyla’s Monument

He’s sounded the drums to call you home,

My dearest one Kyla, such is your call.

A call to angels and nobles supreme.

If I’d had notice of your brief stay;

I coulda sent you a flower of rose,

Or lavender.

Or any of them scents so delicate they’d tinge your royal wonder.

I woulda sent you a poem in Gaelic,

Or Greek.

Or a language there of you angels speak.

I coulda sang you a psalm,

Or the soothing words that bees hum;

The prime of Supremes that sets all calm.

I coulda painted you a dream,

Or a benign portrait of a fairy Rome,

Anything, to have you, my world to call home.

I now stand to loathe.

I loathe the cold in my veins,

And its numbness that sets me to wail.

I loathe the warmth of my tears,

My heart and the wretch that’s me, bleeds.

I loathe the taste of pain,

To have it is a hellish task,

To hold it to last is a lot to ask.

I loathe to lose.

A gimmick or charm will do me no wonder,

Your mind so made with no point to ponder,

With a heart so kind you choose not to linger,

And leave me more broken than an arrow aimed at a rock.

Am glad.

The flicker you were, the flicker you lived,

It’s a lifetime you’ll forever be loved.


© #Zimwe production 2011/chapter six/grief-series


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