Writers 
They didn't live long enough.
They just passed through.
Soft faces in white frames.
Smiles we never got over.
We didn't mourn them like the old.
We mourn them like unfinished songs from our lips.
A chorus cut in the middle.
A story with pages torn out.
The young die like flowers in spring -
Sudden, unnatural & painful to see.
Too painful.
Too beautiful for the ground to hold them.
We watched them grow like sunrise & then the sun went down at noon.
No warning, no farewell.
Just an empty bed with a silent phone.
They were just learning to live & love.
They were just learning their own names.
Then, death learned theirs first.
We called them "GONE SOON."
As if death keeps a calendar.
As if twenty was not supposed to end.
As if dreams were supposed to wait.
One day, they were laughing in the yard.
The next day, we are lowering them into silence.
No good - bye long enough, no good reason enough.
Bitter, because they never got to finish.
Never got to wear the gown, build the house they dreamt about & never got to become who they prayed to become.
They left.
