On the Death of Parents

The view is clear
Now their faces no longer
Fill the landscape.

They were the bifocal prisms
To my past, telling me when
To look up, to look down.

Gone, they are safe
From questions, doubts.
Beyond their recumbent forms

I see the others free
Of their shadows
Their stifling breath.

Towards the end
I begin to observe everything
No one wants to see.