Save the homily, put away the cup,
close the old book and turn away.
When the hurt that is rushing, through
our lives like a train – there is nothing
to stop it – not a word or refrain.
When the dreams we are dreaming
are peopled with sons, that are no
longer with us, then the pain’s just begun
We can tell all our loved ones that we’re
doing just fine – that the ache that just started
begins to subside – but we’re lying,
and they know it, been through it themselves,
what’s this word they call closure – but a ticket to hell.
But pain isn’t endless, it softens with age
At times it can comfort – lets us forget the old rage.
It’s shallow, not deep, it rubs and abrades,
in the end, though it sutures the same wound
that it made
Closure is wishing that time got it wrong
that the moment that shattered
didn’t really belong – just delivered in passing
to the wrong addressee –
But in fact, all that mattered is we never forget
to live and to love and to never regret.
That the lives that will touch us, then leave us alone
make us better, than ever we could, by being alone