There are no dead like your dead.
Relentlessly impaled on your memory,
her tiny hand, his frozen bicycle,
his uniform in the doorway, halo’d in
morning light saying “I’ll be alright”,
her scarf thrown aside in the sunshine.
There are no dead.

There are no wounds like your wounds.
Bathed as a child in crimson shadows
his unseeing eyes plead for life,
her skirt in the glade, not running,
not breathing, he is no longer your child
she is returned to the circling universe.
There are no dead.

There are no scars like your scars.
Releasing the hand you trust and trust.
In some strange faith you condemn yourself.
You stand back; the fleeting touch is gone.
Your breast is empty; he is on his own.
She is by herself; he is already flown.
There are no dead.

....