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Las t Exit - by Mark Palermo
Why do I feel that something was stolen?
and
that you are the thief?
Nobody called it a suicide
They called it a harvest
But you and I knew better
In the
end
you got
what you always wanted.
You closed the book of your life,
the final chapters unwritten,
and
I never knew why-
I don't think you did either.
What bothers me still
is not your death-
spirit calls us all
home at length-
but the words unsaid
and emotions frozen and forgotten
like dead birds
in an attic.
I
can venture a guess-
there was sadness
in the unfinished work that was your life,
but that was destined to us
all
the day we were born.
And what you saw of the world,
the cynicism, poverty, and mindless brutality,
you
saw them correctly.
You saw yourself without flinching-
while not seeing roses
hidden among the thorns.
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A man,
even weighted down like a mule,
a man like you,
is worth more than an ocean,
a star,
or a planet.
But no matter
you had fifty years,
your work is over.
Rest now, my good friend,
not with heavy heart,
that you carried like a cross,
through most of your days,
but in knowing that we release you,
and that we remember,
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