My son is going back into rehab. And I have written this poem, tentatively titled: “Hope Walking.”
No white wrappings to cover his skin,
No ebony coffin holds him in.
No Devil demands his bloody jowl,
No minions applaud his muddy scowl.
No crucifix hangs above his bed,
No ebony hood drapes over his head.
There is no funeral for the walking dead.
His mother cries where no one hears.
His father sheds dry, weary tears.
His sister hardens her heart too soon.
His brother prays by the earliest moon.
Though angels hover above his bed,
His skin is white, his eyes are red …
Continual grief for the walking dead.
Redemption awaits for the sound of his call,
God mediates both the rise and the fall.
The requests of the blessed sing heavenly songs,
One warm mustard seed, planted deep, rights his wrongs.
With Love as his blanket and Faith as his bread,
His thirst slowly quenched and his hunger soon fed,
There is hope and new life for the walking dead.