mon père.

You've risen from your shallow
grave
like a phoenix from the ashes,
or perhaps, Lazarus.

I've mourned you.

Have you no ears to hear,
no eyes to see my sobbed tears?

And now you tell me to grieve
once more,
and promise to make this time the last.

The finality of your words shakes
my very core,
the urn that once held you is spilled
onto the floor, waiting to be refilled.

These sutured wounds tear and
rip,
my blood, your blood,
slipping from them.

Together, we're warriors;
you on the field, I in my heart.
You would argue that your effort
is more, more courageous, more valiant,
but I disagree.

You will die fully for your cause,
but I will spend the rest of my life
mourning your double death.