by Matthew Harris

T’was nearly three plus years ago since that early May day
  two thousand and five
  (whereby psyche took a kamikaze nosedive)
that my mother (the late Harriet Harris) ceased to be alive
whose only son now attempts to capture in rhyme
  abysmal grief that still does rankle and deprive
core essence per cumulative emotions that festered
  like angry bees spewing from their hive
no matter that each and every living thing fated mortality
  must arrive
as part and parcel with brief existential rendezvous
  that all to quickly takes a final dip and dive
we (or at least I) still rail damnation
  against powers that be and seek to strive
and to square with cosmic creative force
  death of a loved one which just does not jive
for’ere more me heart does bleed
  oh mom, I just wish God can yourself again revive!