It was the memorial day,
when I ridden with guilt
go and visit them again,
Laid to rest in stacks upon racks wide,
I take them up in my arms,
carry them like flowers tender;
make a fine bed out of them,
I turn the thickest under my grip
into pillows beneath my head,
and lay on top of them, all content,
as I breathe in that scent of comfort!

It was one of those moments,
when content-ness turned to contention
in a sudden motion, deep within myself,
I admonish myself yet again,
for being such a bad friend
to the people on those...