Cody Marby

Do tell the past that presently we weep
each time you choose to haunt old corridors;
the chill of your bare bones each winter sweeps
the pain, like dusted snow, beneath our doors.
Speak not of days that you cannot have back
as you miss days that we must take in stride;
the rain still falls in ways that flood flashbacks
of how it poured at dusk the day you died.
Of course we miss the way your eyes lit up
when you were near the ones most proud of you,
but know that, though you're gone, you still come up
in ways our hearts can't help but hope you knew.
     In rest, find peace with dreams of time well spent
     knowing your voice lives on in this lament.