Whose eyes am I seeing through? Who mourns in this dreary veil? Is it a mother or a father? Is it a sister, a brother, a friend? Who is this Franky that hardly was? Was he sick? Was he murdered? What tragedy stole him away that a child sleeps under this stone?
Responsible. I felt it in one vision, this overwhelming emotion. Was it—no, not guilt, per se. Then I felt the gun under my arm, our arm, his arm. A cop. So it is a crime, and want of justice makes us sick under this rain heavy bough.
Tale Told 