For

I live in a world where everyone dies,
And although that's the only salient fact
I've spent most of my life ignoring it.
I've lost my way with a ways still to go,
And now I don't know if I'm going it.

The old, lovely, warm, cedar Harold Bench
With the blank spot where the brass plate had been
Is now completely gone. It's been replaced
By a new, taller, fake-wood and steel bench
With a more informative, brighter plate.

The original bench's plate had
Specified no surname for "memory
Of our son Harold," mysteriously.
Now I know that Harold, for whom this world
Now never existed, was a Bayford,

And I feel less for him, nonexistent,
And nothing for this hideous new bench,
Though clearly it shows someone cared enough
To more carefully commemorate him.
Sun that will never return burns again.