They say losing a child is the worst thing for you.
Unfortunately, by experience, I can tell you that’s true.
But is our pain all different?  As is 
The way they go.
Either a hero of war
Or lost to disease.
Is All acceptance the same? When we are dropped to our knees
Is it worse not knowing why they took their own life,
Or will vanished unknowingly,
Bring the same strife
Is living life any easier 
With a small glimmer
Of hope?
Or taken accidentally 
By a dose of bad dope?
The loss all consuming,for a parent left behind.

Stanley Steemer gets carpet cleaner

pleasing as grass looks greener
on the other side of the fence.

The above brief yet catchy jingle
played over the
telephonic or radio airwaves

back when I used to watch the

Holy holy holy
Is my Father
He is the one that
Keep us alive every day
Holy holy holy
We are finally having the good weather
Every day
That is a bonus for us
Also Father we had so many
Sleepless nights
We are feed up
Ho holy holy
Do something about our sleepless nights
My Father
Holy holy holy

"waking lights" 

The room sits in its late-hour weight,
charcoal settling where the boards dip.
A latch sticks; the cold has worked at it
through weeks of short days.

The radio mutters through the same reports.
Outside, the yard is a sheet of dull metal,
the shed roof taking the last scraps of light
without giving anything back.

Vermeer knew this hour -
how a wall keeps its colour
until a single line of brightness
slips across it from nowhere expected.

maestro Kant imitate
nor to save himself from existential nihilism
cause there exists a Hume mung guess
gulf of fallaciousness
alternately titled: a retrospective review
randomly selecting an outdated poem
stored within Google icloud queue.

Tryouts starring musical prodigies
and/or an attendant conductor
attempt to approach ambient chorus
divinely exhibited
from Gaia's handiwork
heavenly invoking kapellmeister
magnificent nonchalant outlook
piquantly, quintessentially,
sensationally striking repertoire