You were so much closer to me, then.
Twenty-eight, still facing time.
I do not think I will see you again.
The mission door, creaking, swinging wide,
A handful of dirt, your gentle face dissolving under lime.
You were so much closer to me, then.
In my son, my nightly search for your face, midnights by his bedside,
His breath a ragged, jangled rhyme.
I do not think I will see you again.
They say wisdom is releasing, turning with the tide.
Accept shaking hand, faded eyes, passing beyond boyhoods prime.
You were so much closer to me, then.
Begin to humble, shrink, pass beyond pride,
Prepare for loss, ease all assault, assume septime.
I do not think I will see you again.
Beyond Etruscan waves, Father, sorrow will abide,
What fades from sight, what’s lost to time.
You were so much closer to me, then.
I do not think I will see you again.
Writer Moe 