I see him lying there in repose,

Robes of white satin wrapped around him.

He lays there motionless and pale,

My brother is silent, calm as he begins his end.

 

I don’t remember much about that eventful night,

I remember the pandemonium that did ensue.

I remember the blaring horns and flashing headlights,

The still darkness and the bang crash boom. The pit of silence.

 

I do remember the next morning,

The blank white walls of the hospital room.

The tubes that run through my veins

The eerie hustle, hushed cries down the corridor. The searing pain.

 

My mother sits in a stupor, staring out the window,

I see tears in my father’s eyes, for the first time.

I look around, in a daze, I look around for my brother,

In silent consolation my father looks away.

In a harrowing reality, my brother had but walked away.

 

Now I am in a state of numb disbelief,

By his cold, pale body, I look at his face waiting for a smile.

I hear the silence in my mother’s heart, the wails of my father,

I see the blankness in these walls again, a sight once so bright.

 

His room still smells of him, I still feel him around me,

The bed still warm as his cold body lays in the other.

I hear his laughter mocking me as if some kind of a bad joke,

There is nothing that slowly shatters my heart into pieces than this, here.

 

Memories of him, keep scratching at the nape,

I shrug it off as it tightens its grip around my neck.

I see him as we ride down the alleys, in laughter and smiles,

I see him hold my hand as we cross the busy streets again.

 

I see my sweet brother, as we sit on the rooftop,

In the middle of the night talking and smoking our lungs.

I think of him as I turn each corner of the house,

I see him bespectacled, reading a book of a same name.

 

Now I sit on the rooftop, lighting up that cigarette,

This time I am here all by myself.

As the procession walks away, the pyre turns to smoke,

He is now resting in memories, he now haunts these four walls in the dark.

 

Reminiscence of times thus passed, years will roll down,

We get used to not having them around.

But at night when I come on the rooftop, I will think of him,

I will think of his eyes, his last night, the flashing headlights,

For in that moment I hope to wake up,

I hope to walk to his room to see him reading that book of a same name.

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