He Cannot Breathe

He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe.
He is grown stifled and erroneous in speech,
And where thoughts once tickled his tongue to
Words woven into tapestries he is, against character,
…silent.

I knew him once a mourner, red faced and an
Earthquake for a mouth. Sounds came then that
Splashed open disjointed tales that somehow melded
Into a mesh of sense, a resounding mausoleum
To our mutual loss.

But I knew him best as companion, champion of lost
Roads covered in earth rust and aging anecdotes. We
Gained much time within his intricate weavings, two children
in love with what the past could teach, where a spilled word
burst into a resolution for journey.

But on this day I know myself a mourner, stand alone
Next to a dry and crumbling pit where callous bodied men
Toss and turn spades and shovels against a rotting earth.
If a hand fell to nestle a comfort on my shoulder, I did not feel it.
If a voice was risen into an echo of generic condolence, I did not hear it.

I am standing on the edge with a strange quiet in my ear,
His words misshapen to eerie stillness by a premature absence.
And slowly I realize this silence condemns me for a new lifetime.
But as I watch the pit gradually filled, I am seized with a horrid fear
And my mind reels frightfully and screams in a tearful frantic…
“He cannot breathe! He cannot breathe…”