When he died so died my creativity, taken by a thief
Of mourning. I still tried, but each thought seemed tired and old.
Once shimmering prospects evinced fool’s gold.
Grandpa’s eyes glimmer through mine to remind me of the brief
Bright before the fall. When disbelief
Slipped in to shatter a once-bold
Boy, muses scattered from a fresh-dug tomb, uncontrolled,
And my dripping eyes let dreams slip in the grip of grief.
How long to embrace the urge to erase
Each written line? Smothered light searches for a slit
To shine through, but I’m locked in place:
A stasis where inspiration fades and I can’t get
To the details. Left for naught, not ready to face
For years: no way to write it out or choose not to omit.


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