This is quite personal, but still, crit the hell out of it. I've also not revised it, so its technically ots.

A soft room,
As well as I can remember.
I recall purple, heavy curtains
And dim lights.
I felt calm, yet a chill rippled
My young spine,
It took an age to pitter-patter
Silent, to the centre,
The focal point: a box,
And her.

Hair clings to wet lip,
Arched and lined, quivering
A dove’s lament.
Bent over the box like the Virgin
Over baby Jesus,
But no crying he makes.
His lips dry, cracked,
His eyes purple-rimmed and closed
Motionless and boxed,
A Son.

She scoops him,
Cradling, wetting dry skin
And arid, matte hair.
I dare to move closer
And he, it, is thrust upon me.
I cradle this husk numbly
And realise that is all he is.
And what separates us?
He looks just like me,
Son three.

A week’s blur
And we’re facing dusty pews.
Choking hallelujahs,
Mumbling anonymous sentiments.
And when ashes become ashes
And dust becomes dust,
My father tells me
That ‘it’ is ‘just a box’
Nothing more.
A box.

And I am calm,
Yet that same chill ripples my spine,
And I realise that in that box is where
We’ll all end up.
So here, ten years on,
I’m neither happy nor sad,
Just numb, and waiting, staring at earth
Passing the hours
Until I’m in
A box.
"You can never quarantine the past."