In Memory of George Sykes

So they decided to number the days
God gave you. Line them up and out
to a finite end, give or take the consequential
few. Days that could have swum by at
something close to the speed of terror.

But, gauging the accuracy of science
and the immutable qualities of life,
you paid no attention to someone else’s count,
deciding death was no failure and no surprise.

Hope is an irritating thing,
composed of doubt and desire, gnawing
at the cluttered parts of your mind
where you hold everything of importance.
You did not succumb to it.
You just lived.