An end to hope? 1 minute read

We stand before a blazing stove,
That shrieks and scythes red raw;
Threaded straws in a numbing wind;
Clutching tight, just clinging on;

Through grinning tears, we snatch and tear;
Whispered memories of a future past;
In a melting hail on that final descent;
Our freefall into tomorrow;

Averted eyes, that must not meet;
Nor reflect what lies below;
That over which, we exert no control;
That which sets us all in stone;

I hold you tight and breath you in;
Darkness erupts through salted tears;
I close my eyes, but can’t feel your pain;
As I get to walk away.

Evening of October 22nd 2015

We had just returned from Craigavon Area Hospital after being told that the six months of chemo had been unsuccessful.

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My name is Liam Robertson. I live with my four children in the village of Rostrevor. I had a wife, Niamh, but she died not that long ago. Most days you will find me writing code to feed my family. Most nights I write prose and poetry to prick and prod that ragged tear loss leaves behind.
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