Crose

Elegant even in mourning
And dressed in designer black
The most composed of us observes
"We have always been dysfunctional"
Actually lightening the mood as we seek closure
"The curse of the Crows" our youngest quips
Forcing a smile to his pale lips
He can't help but recall early demonstrations
Initial symptoms of OCD
Flare ups of childhood rage
Later intervals of morbid silence
And stunted growth in social interaction
Not helped in the least by various substances
Whatever it took to numb his skull
Still later salvaged by a level of recovery
But then years of bad choices, quiet breakdowns
And an amusing variety of diagnosis
Amazed he's still standing, really
A matter of regret or gratitude
A tough call as he lowers a single rose.