Ali

A love of my life was a child I hardly felt in my arms.
His first encounter with life was mortal.
He came into this world then departed, like a bubble.
A moment here and then gone.
And I wanted to mourn. Oh, I wanted to cry.

Like that friend of mine who was a genius.
Full of life; glamorous and exciting.
And then Life wasted him.
Degenerating him into a ‘once an eagle’.
And I wanted to mourn. Oh, I wanted to cry.

And this infant child of mine, who just looked at me.
A desperate, despairing look.
I could feel... I could feel.
I held that delicate, fluffy palm.
The hypodermic poking into it — crucifying me.
And I wanted to mourn. Oh, I wanted to cry.

And I felt the love.
I woke with him and I woke through his coma.
Then he left. Gone, like the bubble.
Gratefully, when I wasn’t around.
Leaving me wondering.
Was he mercifully relieved of the struggles that plague a lifetime?
Or was I being primed for the battles that lay ahead my own existence?
And I wanted to mourn. Oh, I wanted to cry.

And I buried my child.
A candle, blown out by an early gust of life itself.
A moment here and then no more.
And I wanted to mourn. Oh, I wanted to cry.

But please!
He’s more than a bubble, he’s more than a bubble.
When they wrote ‘Kilroy was here’, people noticed. They felt.
And I wanted to mourn. Oh, I wanted to cry.

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