He Is Gone

It is sufficient to
say that he is gone,
nothing left behind
to put away in my box of
Anything Worth
Holding Onto --
maybe some memories
that I can't decide if
I should keep or
dig a pit for.

Where is the tombstone
that I may stand over
and do my mourning,
or the newly poured soil
that I may weep my
eulogy upon?
I have roses for
his passing and
love letters,
simple tokens of
my affection, but no
gravesight to set them on.

Some say that he is not gone,
but I know better.
They point me to a man
with lying in his eyes
and indifference in
his laughter.
Body and bones, but no soul
needing nobodys to
love him, to validate
his misconceptions
of life and purpose.

No, he is not the the one
I mourn for.
Sufficient to say that
he is gone.