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.

Marina Pickett

March 2005

September 2006