that penultimate stanza whacks hard. nicely done my friend.

In that beautiful, silent world of choice things often seem worth the risk. And the pleasure of risk is in the control needed to ride it with assurance. Ny choosing a certain path (or having one chosen for us) several others are not chosen, and maybe, opportunity for something different is lest at the street level, and can never reach the door to knock. Whether I'm way off base or not, I think this is expertly written, and feels (to me) like a poetic counterpart to the graphic novel. Delighted. Thanks.

...i was wonderin' how you really feel? seem pretty iffy...great strong write, even-keeled throughout. in the end the mystery has a still deeper mystery, eh?

very interesting write.. the last two lines were very powerful ..

If this is personal and a real physical condition, then my prayers are with you. The bond with the mother is so strong here - I like how you've tied her into this in several places. Such a vivid weaving of past and present, the tension is palpable.

One of your most searing poems, George, and like the others, I hope all is well...because the words bespeak a significant darkness even if they are profound.

When I learned to go contrary the flow of what was dubbed normal, I felt a wonderful release from such sayings as would bridle life such as life imitating art or vice versa. I think nothing repeats or imitates anything else, and everything has its own unique face and rhythm and space and expression, as does this poem which is wonderful in its own right, and living apart from any other.

I feel this poem deeply, a personal significance bonds me to it. You write just as the mind/soul/heartache understands ::: and I thank you.

That opening stanza is what does it for me. You've got a talent with colors. Wonderful stuff, man. Just amazing.

Profoundly sad, brilliantly done. The title is perfect. The confusion and internal bleeding of both you and your loved one is so achingly well-portrayed

Well expressed. Nice to know that I'm not alone in my aloneness, especially since my own mother passed 9 months ago (already) as of tomorrow.

We cannot all reach that fine winter departure, the state of cool, white, oblivious peace after a lifetime of the violence of colour...sometimes it is in that autumn time, of burnt umber leaves and the scarlet of overripe apples, of gold shifting from longingly pale to brassy and cheap, sometimes in that season we are harvested, and the moon becomes blooded with this year's sacrifice, and we let go when this aggressive sunset beckons, content to know that we feed the living...

it's the only cure, yes. the only true out. not sometimes... alltimes. Rattled to core i am - reliving every death in the family, even those from when i was too young to comprehend.

amazing! from start to finish! i don't know what else to say.

I whole heartedly agree- a wonderful piece- thanks!