Crazy, funny, amazing, ironic, cruel how something so final, permanent and over and done with be present tense.

My child, my life, my husband, my wife

My sister,  my brother, my father, my mother

My love, my heart.

Is dead.  Are dead.

If it’s all over, shouldn’t it be was or were?

That would be easier, better.  Right.

These things, these life-altering, no, life-shattering changes.

Happiness of the past:  Life was so good.  It used to be so. . .

Misery of the present:

We never think them just or pleasant.

But in the wake of things such as this,

All that’s longed for is to make it like it was.

Make things the way they once were.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I think poems like this one are the reasons that my brother reads my stuff and says, "Kyla. . .you are SO strange."

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