Stoic Son 1984-2014 Poem by Terry Collett

There it is again, that
almost unbelievable
vision of you on the
hospital bed, dead,

my son. Each day
brings it, some days
in a different form,
same pain again and

again. Time heals
nothing, it just tries
to objectify it, put it
out there in suspense,

ghostlike. I thought
the ache and pain
would ease in time's
moving hands, but

no, it just seals it in
to heart, vein, muscle
and pain. Come again,
my son, when and if

you can, my dead son,
my young brave Stoic man.