Stepping Out Slowly Poem by Louis Payne

I couldn't come to visit you,
After we followed up behind you,
And the four men carrying;
They really had no right to.

Some difficult path that was, wasn't it,
Putting you into box, then leaving you,
Lowered under turf?
I thought my gaunt expression then,
Would sink like turf should. Put away,
Forget; the buried soil, the rot.

And yet, it still catches me occasionally,
When I think of the last complete picture
Before this. I cannot go back
At you sticking up, erect; refusing death.

I will think some allusive thought,
That you are up and about walking
The mass of graves late at night,
Refusing to sink.

How do I handle your still fresh grave
And settle you to sleep in my heart?
I cannot bare coming back with you
Running rampant through my veins.
There is no relief in putting your face
Away in boxes where I do not cease to see
You reminding me constant;
As every beat, you add a murmur too.

When I have trouble finding your mark,
Your precise spot, I will visit again
Your plot that set you out from every stone,
Is ground, just land that settles down
And makes it right.
Everyone the same, today, and
Tomorrow's light.