chocolatedad

Boys

It is strange how the dead do not age
My uncle is still the silver-voiced
Green eyed little boy he's always been
He'd be retired, silver-haired now --
Might even be dead, if he hadn't
Screamed out his life on Zyklon B

My son, shoulders broadening, might be
Chasing my height, flushed by green-eyed girls
But there are no stories of my boy
He is always only ... potential
Yesterday I tumble him so small
In my cloud arms, lift him to his father.

Let the dead bury their dead they say.
A hard teaching. May they live forever.


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AN: This poem is in sonnet form, except that lines are cut short at 9 syllables rather than the standard 10. And line 6 is truncated more. The truncation mostly just happened. I didn't realize my subconscious was doing it until there was a full draft.
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