I know you cannot hear me,
but I must imagine you can.
It is just too hard to believe that you are gone.
Here among this crowd of friends and loved ones
the reality of it all hits home.
The grass is damp as if all the tears
that are wept moisten the greenery of the ground
and tells all of the deep agony we feel
while our memories of your laughter resounds.
"I must not cry," I tell myself.
"Not here for all to see."
Yet, I cannot stop the constant flow of tears.
The sorrow of your death is immense, yet I rejoice
for the day I will see you again
constantly draws near.
I wrote this poem for a good friend of mine by the name of Eric Salter. He was a deputy with the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department and was killed in a car wreck January 18, 2000.
I met Jerome on a busy city street in Baltimore, Maryland, when he was forty-five years old. On that particular day, I was out and about, enjoying a much-needed day off from work.
I wanted to purchase a sukiyaki sub. I parked my car in an area of
Hundreds of excerpts from the archives of the Narcissistic Abuse Study List regarding Pathological Narcissism, relationships with abusive narcissists, and the Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD).
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