It’s not fair, a stranger’s face shouldn’t look like you.
I shouldn’t see it every time I glance up from my feet.
Don’t you know my mind is weak to the hauntings of
Friends who’ve passed, monsters who hide behind
familiar faces, the hollow shells of addicted souls?
When death grasps, my mind clasps onto any
remnant and plants them into my waking eyes.
There’s an ache in my chest when I hear a guffaw
too much like those I remember.
A saxophone is always going to be a sad creature to listen to.
My favorite crime shows are too real now.
The things we’ve grown to see as fictitious now terrorize us
as we take our steps forward into the misty isle of grief.
A grief we all now have to face.
You touched us all in different ways.
Copyright Terrah Short 2014