I stood over a coffin late today
of a young man who was 
most cruelly gunned down,
to me, he looked 
amazingly alive,
but two shotgun blasts 
most likely guaranteed, 
that he would not 
be winking up at me,
a relative by blood, 
his now was spilt,
two chest wounds 
stopped his heart
and here he lay,
a tiny smile lay bent 
to grace his lips,
a shotgunned grimace
left by death's cold face,
he'd fought back against 
three that sought to steal,
what he had, 
that they craved 
enough to kill
his finger rigor mortised 
was still crook'd
from the pistol he had 
fired back at them,
just 28 and gone 
within mere seconds,
almost half his life 
was spent being a kid,
underneath his parents roof 
and their control,
then for ten short years 
he got to roam the world,
but drugs and money 
stole from him his soul,
not dead more then one day 
so fresh and young,
but no one could breathe 
life back into him,
a brief sex life, 
his girlfriend she was there
he died protecting her 
from murderous lust,
tonight they viewed him 
from four until nine,
his friends all came 
to visit one more time 
than back into the 
cooler he was put,
what an awful way 
to spend Saturday night,
inside a morgue drawer,
awaiting his grave,
toe tag upon his foot 
to mark his name,
his cold hands squeezed by
all who loved him so,
some lipstick on his forehead
from the girls,
he might have loved,
but fate shot him a "No!"
Soon satin and bronze 
metal will enclose
his body in it's 
frozen last repose,
then dirt and time will 
slowly just erase, 
the memories of his life,
his handsome face,
six feet of soil
grants his last embrace,
There is no rhyme 
nor reason for his death,
thus this poem ends with a sigh,
much like his final breath.

Art~Whimsically Yours studio

Matthew F. Blowers III-

©-2015