Grief

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The flame so brilliant, so bright
swimming with a ghost of my past.
The smoke rising up like the
last sounds of my brother Michael.

The light of the little flame
like the last glint in his eyes
as he told my mother
he was going to heaven.

I cry as I watch,
the flame crying with me.
I smell the sweet, sweet smell of him.
The beautiful roses;
the beautiful red flame.

As the sparks gave out
they both cried out,
“I love you mom.”
As he did.

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