He buried his father today, hot tears
Streaking down his cheeks as the smoky haze
Of incense and burnt flowers bathed him and
His fam’ly with aching, foreign sadness.
His father is gone, and he can’t fathom
Why his heart feels muted, mutilated.
"How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." – Annie Dillard
He buried his father today, hot tears
Streaking down his cheeks as the smoky haze
Of incense and burnt flowers bathed him and
His fam’ly with aching, foreign sadness.
His father is gone, and he can’t fathom
Why his heart feels muted, mutilated.