To Henry

Note: When sarcaveman described his friendship with Henry to me, and asked me to write a poem in honor of his spirit, I was hesitant. I did not know if my words would ever come close to describing what was a beautiful bond with his now deceased friend. Henry was ever wary of love, yet he was loved, and he never understood it. Nature does have a way of enveloping everything in love. I hope that the piece I have worked on, does justice to his memory. sarcaveman has asked me to share this work with you, and I am touched that he would want me to.

‘To Henry’

There are flowers on your grave,
someone left them there,
they grow
like how wild you were;
Under that mound of mud,
and stone,
are bones
that knew not of love;
You are now wind and water,
where we fished together,
and earth,
where we hunted scores,
played cards,
got drunk;
You are everything
in nature,
your dust is now a part,
of all dust;
I wonder
if you have wisened at all,
if you look through the stars,
and see that life was worth the risk
of a broken heart;
Sometimes maybe you could see,
through it all;
But that day at your funeral,
when you were missing,
and the day was lost gold,
I felt a call,
and looked up,
to the riddle in the cloud
of your soul;
Maybe that is where the flowers,
on your grave come from;
They grow,
watered from wishes,
of others
whose lives you must have touched,
could have touched,
should have touched;
You who never loved
are more than a memory,
are a ghost of a person,
who deserved so much more,
than what you held on…

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