A Criminal Cohort

Dear old friend Greg,

What life a man must have led,

For me to be his companion in death,

As I stay looking at the screen and the clock,

Waiting for the time I get of this block.

In front of me lays a man very much out of breath,

Looking as if he is soon to face his lord's wrath.

Sympathy is not a forte in my line of business,

Unless it is a direct order and nothing less.

But on strange evenings and dark twilights,

I take my coffee and another's bud lites,

To the barricade that separates worlds of man,

Limiting a soul to what he can't do and what he can.

And in those eerie sunsets we shared stories of old,

Bearing witness to the spooky sirens of souls sold,

How a man or a boy walks those streets without fear,

Without a care in the world, never looking in the rear.

Of such individuals legends have been made,

But in the avalanche of time, they all eventually fade.

And as I sit across my cursed buddy, revealing secrets,

Life suddenly withdrew from him and with God he met.

The sinner lay dead in front of me,

With a smile only I could see.

As twilight brought the crimson black sky,

I wondered all night and asked why?

Did the smile meant his freedom at last?

In spite of all the crimes and sins of his past?

But that never mattered at the end,

For my own can never be mend.

So I ask, hoping the truth may lie in the questions

Maybe in that lies my only path to salvation.

What life a man must have led,

For me to be his companion in death?

Sincerely,

Arabi