The truth not cresting my own skyline yet,
Though I can sense it's awful fingers touch;
Not cruel, not evil, not unkind as such,
But creeping in to dye my thoughts unset.
Cascading light illuminates your face,
My memories warm, though you are cold to touch;
Not distant, callous, not selfish as such,
You've left me still, though, lonely in this place.
Sleeping, pallid, you're covered, then you're gone,
And soon I may forget your tender touch;
Not lost, abandoned, not spiteful as such,
Just pushed aside so I might soldier on.
Oh, my lost love, my swollen eyes are sore.
Our meagre home your coffin evermore.
What crushing burden pinions me here,
While summer light plays merrily on glass?
Midday. you're at work. Hours slowly pass.
The tick of our old clock grows more severe.
The clock. The fingers on your slowing pulse.
The medic looks up at the lens-like glass,
And shakes his head at what has come to pass.
And then the knife, the rope, the dark impulse.
It's one P.M. You're not at work. You're dead.
The Ankou's fingers tap on window glass.
There have been days like weeks in how they pass,
And dreams of you bring lonely, waking dread.
The tricks I play on my own reeling mind,
Disintegrate and leave me left behind.
Warmth unfound in the generous shelter
Of each poor souls that I would call my friend.
I smile and laugh and like a pro pretend,
And ignore the voice, the eddy and the blur.
So kind, akin to nothing, much like her,
In equal parts of sweetness and of dust,
With no sign of spoiling, though I know she must,
In her cot asleep and nevermore to stir.
Ashamed of how I weep in public light.
It's brightness makes me weak, and I collapse.
That I could have a moments grace, perhaps,
Or see the end of this protracted night.
I long for her to carry me downstream,
To join her in some never ending dream.
Blush petals shine at the edge of your lips,
And your marbled skin has turned cold as stone.
Your body all angles and twisted bone,
Jagged trees show out where the flesh has ripped.
You're fine, as am I. Thirty depressions,
Two breaths. They say you are cold, so I leave,
And fetch the blanket which I'm sure you need.
A shared look. I watch an act in session.
Late. I imagine being here sooner.
You sit upright. We go to hospital.
I bring flowers and a scarf made of wool.
It's red, and it is like some grand treasure,
Cascading round your slender, pulsing nape,
Alive and perfect in our drab dreamscape.
His words are dim. My ears ringing, I'm faint,
But emotionless, unfeeling and thin.
Inside me, I sense the invaders taint,
Small and solid, formed of all my best sins.
I stand. I leave. Discussion is pointless.
Nothing has changed. My way home is the same.
My bed familiar. Tired, I undress.
Three in the afternoon. I feel no shame.
Agony wakes me. Painkillers popped dry,
Followed by six hours glued to the box,
Kind company for a man such as I.
Morning comes. Coffee, and the front door knocks.
My grandchildren tear round the kitchen untamed
Nothing has changed. My life is the same.
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