We all live after death in memory
Which smooths the rough stone of our lives until
It has the curve and line of poetry
Like happiness that we from grief distill.
In memory, our awkward symphony
Will lose its baser frets, and all our false
Notes will be tweaked into a harmony
That turns our halting tune into a waltz—
The way we made an album from your life,
My brother—upbeat tracks that we can hum
Whose high notes are so strong they dull the knife
Of grief that made the world bleed and become
Empty without you—empty, cold and wrong—
Until we close our eyes and hear your song.
Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells