the race is run, the deed is done

A father has just lost his son. In an accident, the boy died. The father is sitting in front of the grave, his eyes focused on the gravestone. Why, he asks. Why? Then he begins to pray.

My son, god bless you,
You died young,
A fresh leaf, still new,
Didn't have to see life's dung.

Do I have to tell you
That I miss you?
Fear grips my heart
What now is my part?

I see the world through black
Dark are my thoughts
A deadweight sack,
I am totally out of sorts.

You brought me hope
You showed me that
Relationships aren't a product of dope
Where now do I stand?

As hunter and prey,
Humans play this game
Everyday
How many times, and for what name?

Roles switch,
Hunted turns to hunter
Life's a bitch
You went before it hurt you

Goodbye, my son,
Good luck and
May god bless you.

He murmurs under his breath, "The race is run, the deed is done." And he places a single tear from his cheek on his son's grave, and gets up. To the woman standing a little way behind he nods briefly and coldly and signals that it is now her turn. She doesn't bother responding. The air is frigid.