Author: Hani du Toit, Death & Dying, Social Issues

He must be late.

It’s Monday.

Give him a call

Rather unusual he’s not here at all

He’s always the first one in

There must be something wrong, they said

This simply isn’t him.

Ring his landline

Send someone along

He’s never late

There’s something going on.

But nothing’s going on at home

Everything is off

Then it’s all so clear

He is not here

Not with us anymore.

The door knocked in

After four bell rings

The floor holding his body

Pale blue and straight

We’re twelve hours too late, they say

No, twelve years, I realise

Now wise.

We’re way too late

We always wait

Too long

To invade

A Life

With warmth and care

Then dare

To say in one foul breath

It was a painless death.

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