The clouds lie soft and somber o’er each sodden, stony face.
The crowd, like ravens, perched around his final resting place.
In some imagined future that has not yet come to be
They share their recollections of a man from life set free.

“He sought me one dark evening in the depths of my despair,
my hope long since abandoned, my weaknesses laid bare.
He nothing did but listen, my soul he helped to mend
And now my gratitude I give, for he was
A Good Friend.”

“To me he wrote a letter, though the years between us flew,
to find how I was faring, our friendship to renew.
He asked my joys and sorrows, his love he did extend
and though the years again have passed, still he was
A Good Friend.”

“When happiness had found me and I was soon to wed
he traveled far my love to meet and leave no praise unsaid.
too quickly passed our meeting, too sparse the time to spend
but even now my children know that he was
A Good Friend.”

So one by one they laud him; of his friendship none in doubt.
They eulogize his thoughtfulness, for ever reaching out.
But what to them seemed kindness, another purpose served:
A quiet desperation, unattended, unobserved.
He reached, not as a savior reaches for a floundering friend,
but as a drowning sailor grasps for any saving end.
For though his love was earnest, and no care he did pretend
His life was spent in
searching
longing
yearning
A Good Friend.

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