A son of God, they say-
not merely by title,
but by burden.
He bore the weight of others’ sins,
held their grief like a chalice,
listened without flinching,
and loved without ledger.

He emptied himself
so others could feel whole.
Day after day,
quietly vanishing
to keep them seen.

And now-he is gone.
He flipped the switch
I’ve stared at in silence,
too cowardly,
too loyal,
too afraid to touch.

Did I envy him?
Yes.
God forgive me.
He stepped out of the ache.
He did what I’ve only rehearsed
in the darker corners of my mind.
He left.
He rested.

And I hate him for it.
And I weep for him.
And I understand.

Others called him Father.
I called him brother-
in the silence of my soul.

They trusted him with their ruin.
They loved him with soft names.
And now they are left
holding echoes,
begging the wind for answers.

Where did we go wrong?
Why weren’t we enough to keep him here?

There is no reply.
Only the sound of guilt
taking root in the marrow.

I wish I could say
he’s at peace now.
But I suspect
it wasn’t peace he craved.
It was quiet.
Stillness.
Oblivion, maybe.

Or just a moment
without the weight of being.

And can I blame him?

I cannot.

I can only sit here-
torn between
grief for those who loved him,
and the aching truth
that some part of me
feels relief for him.

I never met him,
but he knew me.
I know it.
In that hidden way
the broken recognise one another
without words.

And now he is gone.

And I am still here-
bleeding,
breathing,
writing
because I must.

Let the world call him saint or coward.
I will call him brother still.
And I will carry his absence
like a candle-
one that burns and blinds
in equal measure.