Hands caress

The wooden box

Of frozen ashes

And life long gone.

The shaking hands

Of a woman

No longer a mother

But a mourner

Of the past

And a container

Of misery

Come to life

Through death.

Gone

Too soon

For us

But just right

For him.

Misery is not for the dead

But for the living.

Mourning is selfish;

Not suicide.

Suicide is abandonment

Come to life

Through death.

Suicide is the cry of the dead

To the living to

Open their eyes

And accept death.