Brightly Burning Deathbed

Brightly burning; an essence of joy. Humor bled through the teeth of your spirit. The laughter of Psalms poured into your shadow. Reserve bled through the teeth of your spirit. There was a small barn cowering away from the sun under elder trees. There was a path forged through the budding grass. You found God in that house. You found peace in its rooms. Disease stole the joy from your brow. Disease stole the days you held dear and clouded them with dirt. When the plaque came, we stole you away from those trees you read gospels beneath. I was too much of a coward to admit to myself that I knew you were dying. I was too much of a coward to be there for you when I knew you were dying.