A poem about a grandfather talking to his grandson.

The man holds an raised umbrella under rainy skies.
As he talks to his grandson, tears wet his eyes.
“I’m not here either to criticize or to demonize.
As I scrutinize the past, I can only surmise
all my attempts to advise you went as failed tries.
The scene where your father would chastise
while your mother cries came to epitomize
our family. Your promises were nothing but lies
under the guise of a willingness to try to stabilize
your life. Your addiction, your love of the highs
came to scandalize and brutalize, then jeopardize
your parents’ faith in you. Even a love the size
of a mother’s gets demoralized and sometimes dies
when a son acts in a manner she can only despise.
Your final act ensures your mother will agonize
forever over her inability to devise a way to catalyze
a life-saving change in your behavior. Her prize,
her beloved son will henceforth always symbolize
her failure as a mother unable to prevent your demise.
Your tragedy ended; for your parents it didn’t do likewise.”
The man places his hand on the headstone and sighs.