Today is for counting my wasted yesterdays
Each one neatly lined up
row on dusty row
Every year the same
Today is for remembering your unborn tomorrows
And the time I sit
because walking is too slow
There is no blame
Today is for pretending to make sense of the past
From a life ended
with nothing to show
When I speak your name
Today is for thinking that memories last
But all they do is fade
until they go
Like every unfinished song to be sung
About the death of a son
Copyright © 2012 William S. Friday
