Until He Was Gone

• Skye Pope, Grade 9
• Poetry
• 2013

He gently sways, from left to right,
Tear filled eyes, shine in a moonless night,
A porcelain wrist, he holds so tight,
All the while, a voice he hears;
Rosy cheeked face rests on sore, bent knees
Eyes wide open, but nothing he sees,
And like shafts of light, her whispered pleas,
Linger ever closer to, closed ears.
Streaked with red and dotted with tears,
She holds those tortured hands as he fades.
No mockery will he hear in heaven,
No exposure to sharpened blades.
No epitaph, will she write for him,
Not a headstone above his grave.
For he has been slain, by his own steady hand,
The one soul that she could never have saved.
They’re sorry now; they say that they are,
But are they going a little too far?
These people had laughed, at his bipolar,
So she doubts they’ll be sorry for long.
For now they weep, and continue to grieve,
This much attention, he had never received,
The fact he’s dead, they hardly believe,
But nobody noticed him until he was gone.