A Note For Michael... Poem by RIC BASTASA

i could have told Michael that his
despair is the fruit of his poisoned tree.

that there is no sense crying over love
which has failed for all those years to respond
to tears.

that if there is someone whom you should love more
and make it last perhaps forever is this love of self.

one whom you can talk with forever
until you die, and if you died well enough

when your soul rises higher from your body
by then, you could have told yourself, how

elevating death is, but how can i ever tell him now
when he had anticipated it so well

he is up there (perhaps with wings and halo on his head)
while here i am, scribbling another note for him.

too young to be brave enough
too young to die without having grasped so well
the meaning of his life.

(how do i really know? i never will)