What We Know

He lay broken at the foot of his empty bed.
A place his wife,
once laid her head.

She cries in oceans where he used to play.
The son she lost,
haunts even her –
brightest days.

They know what I know.
A creaking vessel of pain.

They see what I see.
A wandering hurt with no name.

Our memories are congested,
with betrayal and death.
We grab hold to the handrails,
that have been left.

They know what I know.

And by the look in your eyes,
and pain residue,
this un-welcomed knowledge,
also sleeps in you.

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