I Dreamt of His Death
Lamenting my loss, I stood at his grave
angry at myself for not telling Tim,
before he died, how I felt, my heart’s rave,
that I was genuinely fond of him.
Wanting, relief, I stomped my feet around,
angrily, with my fists, I shook the hurt.
Then in a fit of rage, dropped to the ground,
and with my fingers tore at the vile dirt.
I screamed, my voice piercing the still of death,
the quiet echoing, I crouched aching.
Cold mourning air swallowed my wispy breath,
and my heart, in its hollow lay breaking.
Then the vision, the dream faded away,
and I knew he still lived and what I’d say.
Marina Pickett
March 2005
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