365 Poems/49 Chasing Spirits (Rough First Draft)
An actor in a twenty minute film
played a dying man.
He mimicked the breathing
and slight movements
of my Grandfather.
Since his passing, my soul
has grown weaker.
The urge to sleep for
whole seasons amongst rocks
and rotting timber has increased.
For me, there was always doubt
that the time would come when
he would leave us.
I never properly steeled myself
for the inevitable. I sat, quietly
watching him, in disbelief
that he would never stand again.
Those first few days after his death,
I was fumbling and feeble.
The ground is now freezing hard
with Siberian cold, and I still gasp,
break down, though I know
following this sadness is as useless
as chasing spirits.