My friend Don Sewell

Sitting at home on my bed leaning on a stack of pillows. The willows blowing in my head. I've said this before. I've walked out a door. He's dead, he's dead. My friend is also on a stack of pillows, but for our sake not his, he's dead. Propped up out of courtesy to our adversity of death. Only this I did not see, as I grieve late. Missed the date, of your arrival someplace else. The one where a person is supposed to be happier, but this is sappier than I can partake in. So I close my eyes that are wet from your energy, trapped in me. I let you flow out, my tears, showing me fears and a pure love to remember you by. Like cherry pie, you were one of my favorites.