Death is not a slumber, it's a departure by Ian Bailey

I'll never find you

over a crescent hill

you disappear

on your way

to make an unfathomable escape

in infant time

a spruce in the cradled divine, "world"

too vast and blue

in time naturally

you succumb to you

as eyes give way to tears

that plumply fall where pain is due

where in your departure

we find ourselves reserved to solitude

as the freckled light

impedes on the corners of my room

I stare, I stare

and wish too much of the sickled moon

To the audience of stars

and those celestial few

I beg, bring me atop that crescent hill

no longer till I say my dues

and see my grandmother along

that is all I ask, of the fair moon

grant a living wish

let my swollen eyes view

her soundest departure

then no longer

will I intrude.