Poetic Bloomings rubaiyat

At Twenty-Nine

When death comes knocking for the young,

When music stops before song’s sung,

We pause to feel the sorrow’s pain.

Too soon, the final bell has rung.

The thoughts surge slowly through the brain.

It feels like acid through the vein.

You wonder why the tears won’t come

Or if the numbness will remain.

“It can’t be real,” beats like a drum.

Impossible! It sounds so dumb.

The sky’s still blue, the days go on.

Where did this throbbing ache come from?

The joy and hope becomes withdrawn.

Tear after tear, the grief does spawn.

You cry until the tears are gone.

Then they return with the next dawn.