My brothers keeper, a poem

Sticky Vicky never made detox.

o.k. just one poem

MY BROTHERS KEEPER

My brother, home for a few days with that gypsy.Dope sick, distracted, agitated and dying. It was then I realized for the first time that my brother had not come home at all, instead death had come. Oily and obsequiously evil, its shadow lingering all around the edges till I wondered if everyone saw it. Death played and caressed their ugliness triumphantly. I shrank from their presence, aware of a strong fear inside of myself. Not only was life itself being thrown away but also the opportunity to die.I found myself being fiercely proud and protective of my ability to bring dignity and grace to my own finial farewell. A feeling of knowing acceptance pervaded my space and spread through me. Warming my heart and my buffalo. While death played over the sugar cubes in the bowl on the checkered cloth and my brothers words droned into empty nothingness. I am no longer my brothers keeper. His soul is now chaperoned by an order far more powerful. His dark riders are gathering. I feel the Indian blood in a  pinto pony where the shadows plunge in the grasses and the sage is of the earth and timeless.