A week.
Death.
It's epidemic.
It's certain.
It's an everyday occurence, and
Yet, each time it strikes I'm struck
By the mystery of it.
Why can one be living, breathing,
Touching me and in a blink,
Be gone?
Why?
Why does the body I held and loved
Turn cold,
So quickly decay,
Become fit to only bury or
Burn?
Why?
Why must I face the second, or
Third, or fifth loss like it's my
First?
Why doesn't grief get easier and
Shorter each time?
Why doesn't practice make
Perfect?
Why?
Why, when it's inescapable, am
I still surprised
When I get the call, "He's gone,"
And I say, "I can't believe it."
Why?
Why do I live from day to day
As if death will skip me?
Why?