Brandon

A shoulder brushed by a parallel fate. A tear's voice hushed by an ice cold finger. In medicine's eyes, arriving late--- The wheels to turn, the tracks to linger. A line stretched forth to see tomorrow, Sheet music to an inner beat. Black and white and written in sorrow--- A piano with an empty seat. A lonesome tree set in sturdy ground, Further buried by a winter's snow, Shielded by its leaves, now browned, Is watered still, and left to grow. And I, sadly, have come to terms with death, My canvas marked by the blood in his breath.