Dolor

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The sun has gone.

Night resumes its dark song
longing for stars, reaching
for the rapture of eternity.

You wait so far away,
in your own private night;

I feel your fear trembling
like fitful autumn wind
rushing through my eves,
filling my garden
with the spent leaves
of youthful summer.

I know you wait in his dim room,
curtain pulled, tv on,
door discretely ajar
as you watch him sleep.

I wish I could help,
and pray
the perfect prayer,
conjure God out of the night
and force the miracle of morning.

But God is silent,
His will is not known,
and my prayer
impotent.

So I send you this poem,
to sing you
my tears.

I can offer nothing more
than a brother’s love.

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