He was my friend,
But secrets did he keep
In the arcane work of life and death,
In which we all dragged our plows.
It was an amusement park of horror
Deep on the fuming streets,
Where victims dropped from the sky
Or bought tickets in bubble-gum cars,
And through it all,
He was my friend.

The blood flowed in rivers
And we gave as we received,
Junkies one and all,
Seeking to cheat the Harvester
One more time,
And losing those who hurt us most,
Keeping us humble,
For there was but little magic in our hands.

I remember him in those days,
Soft spoken words above the din,
Smiling and reassuring
When sights and smells were too dreadful to bear.
And so we shared
Superficially, as men are wont to do,
But I know now that he wanted more,
And felt more,
And knew more,
And as I thought I knew the score,
I let it be,
Because he was my friend.

There is no greater dismay
Than when tissue fills with blood,
Alone in small tiled rooms,
Black as we die within,
And we utter not a sound,
For our language knows not the words,
And then we die,
For caregivers bear poorly
The benevolence of others.

In the end, I was not his friend,
For a friend knows
When the specter of death draws near,
And I
Chose easy answers
As he slowly passed away.

I am like many,
Etched with the sin of neglect,
Scarred in a sea of regret,
Making excuses for my own disregard,
Begging for forgiveness from on high,
And remaining ever-vigilant in my days
For another opportunity to care,
And knowing of a surety
That I am indeed my brother’s keeper.