Oh, Chris

Sadness
unencumbered by pride
Never less resolute to stand
Fold rather
and weep
unmanly
unsportsmanlike.
No matter.
We are not in times of war.
Quick!  Before you take me for
the worst sort of poet.
Poetry this is not.
Mere thought.
Mere keystroke meditation.
A box of grey light.
Music sad, instrumental.
A heart shaped candle from my love.
Incense.
This is a eulogy,
as all words have been since you left me.
This is not poetry.
No rhyme, no meter, no matter.
This is not in the finest form.
It never will be.

© Rick McKinney 1997

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