Their Own Way of Mourning
by Michael Doyle

Out here in the cold mornings of the suck,
Each man learns to burn his own piece of luck.
Each man is more fragile than he seems,
But each of them has a passion for American Dreams.

Still, everyone mourns in their own way,
Some mourn best by being alone.
It's hard to push beyond the day.
A heart becomes little more than a jagged stone.

Pushed to the point of death,
There is little for space than found in faith.
A struggle in life just for breath.
It belongs best to the sacred God of faith.

Our unit holds together as a family,
Believing in the truth of our special community.
We stake to all the sacred rites,
As our eyes search out into the nights.

On the canyon rim, I close my eyes,
And I hear your voice in the word.
Your time came as a complete surprise,
And somehow grieve you less, my friend.

(c) September 2, 2006   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reservedo