The anger of death come early,
Too soon to commend its way.
Fury screams, "Why?"
But there is no explanation, 
Only profound chasms of nothingness.
When does Heaven speak?
Where is its voice amidst the roar,
Of silence, like winter's breath.
Heavy, still. 
Cursed reality that pierces dreams!
No joy delights,
No summer wind or spring flower,
Nothing calms the heart but grief.
Until all its thoughts are spilt,
Drop by drop, like paint, 
On an unfinished canvas. 
To become,
Whispers in the clouds, 
That will never be forgot.

“Death come early” was born from grief—not my own, but that of a friend whose daughter committed suicide at age 21. No one could understand what had gone wrong, how she could have possibly felt that this was the only way out, or that she was even struggling. 

On the outside, she was beautiful and intelligent, artistic and creative. This was surely the most difficult funeral I have experienced, especially witnessing her mother’s grief (her father had already passed on). I wrote this poem in an attempt to bring solace to my friend in the only way I knew how—through writing.