Sonnet - Hollow

No rest for the poor souls left behind,

Questions fall like hail upon the nerves;

No answers, and no comfort shall they find,

Despite the closure each of them deserves.

How does anything like this make sense?

Here one moment, in the next one gone;

Trying to imagine them "past tense" --

Never mind the task of moving on.

Yet life continues, day by grueling day,

As if nothing's happened here at all;

A life so prematurely snatched away,

Powerless t'ignore the reaper's call.

Would that I could close my eyes and rest,

But for this cold hollow in my chest. 

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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.