Perfect Plan

How many funerals can a week hold?
The mass grave of a millennium.
Crying, weeping, sobbing,
     feel you've lost everything.
He's gone,
     she's heartbroken,
     all she wants is to,
     sleep.
She's gone,
      mentally locked in his room,
      going through the pictures.

The crowd of sorrow,
     parted naturally.
These cry out,
    look for something,
    anything,
    why does this hurt?
If truly perfected, planned, wanted,
     why does this hurt?
If this is the same since time,
     why does this hurt?
Left in confusion,
     many heartbroke,
     wander,
     lost.
Others lie,
     confuse with words,
     and deeds,
     false sympathy.

That shiny and bright thing,
     that glows,
     and beams touch my skin.
A vaguely familiar thing,
     at first I fear it burns.
Instead, I face it,
     drink it in,
     changing from threat to friend,
     now a fire burns within me,
     motivating me.
Is this it then?
This is the perfected plan?
I look as others still lay,
     heartbroke,
     lost.
Who'll tell these?

S.D. (poem 11/9/11; picture June, 11)  Original