He lay just up the road from my father, the young man I grew to consider my friend though we never met in this realm. On our way to my father’s grave, I was strangely drawn to one nearby. A few small stuffed animals had been placed around it, as if they could either be standing guard or keeping company. I walked up to read the gravestone and learned it was the final resting place of a youth of seventeen. The offerings, loving expressions of grief from his friends, likely their first experience of death with someone so close to their own age. I felt as if I were sharing it with them. My father had been closer in age to when one naturally crosses the veil, but in a way he introduced. On future visits I always made it a point to say hello to my young friend.
“Lunacy” comes from the moon, Who cycles through brilliance and darkness Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed Opposites not so well harnessed Who cycles through brilliance and darkness? The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with Opposites. Not so well harnessed As she thought, her brain gives reason the slip The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with Her body, depressed, her thoughts manic. As she thought, her brain gave reason the slip And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic. Her body depressed her thoughts. Manic Lunacy comes from the moon And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed
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