by Chad Hollis
They found you dead
Said you were bruised
Could it have been
By your own angry hands?
Laying in a field
of withered winter grass
Strewn with broken bottles
and dreams
Not the woods
Behind my mother’s house
Where we chased each other
Through the paths of adolescence
Forever jumping society’s fences
to abandoned pools
looking for our reflection
in the dark deserted water
Where only singing frogs could live
And I remember the torment
in your actions, behind your smiles
No escaping the obvious
just as your father sat alone
Picking at his guitar, two in the morning
On a cracked cement step
When your mother left
For the last time
And I dream at night
That as you laid in that field
of withered winter grass
for just one moment
Things went your way, as never before
No secrets to hide
Only a silent peace
and as your eyes looked upward, answering
to a star that called your name
as no one else could.