A poem I wrote for my college English class, inspired by the Passing of my grandma. |
Time heals all wounds, or so they say, so why does it feel like im wasting away with each passing moment, the pain gets worse, the guilt heavier, the lesson, perverse? Why does regret pull at my feet, my each cell like gravity, the ground to meet? What coarse chains are shackled to my heart, as the Daemons of grief pull me apart? Who can save the wretched and the lost, the torment of endless laughter's ghost? When hysteria will not save the damned the wicked mind harbors the unnamed man that sit in pools of blood and refuse; the staring eyes that to close, refuse. I will end this verse with a sickly thud, the body that falls first in blood. But before the end, the beginning will mend with lips tight and sown in the bend. I cannot stress enough the test of time upon a withered weary mind, though the last lines that leave these lips shall fall through the stitches' rips. And as I hold the marked time ahead, the little laugh of the understood echoes last in the frozen wood-- the dead fall silent in their bed. as they dream of nonsensical things with nothingness reaching towards the seams a still heart the lacking beat brings. Wring the hands and hold the phone-- what more could be in time alone? A solemn whisper of generous grief The finality almost comes a relief yet the tears that rolls and bring a shame holds only in itself a name. the light shines in and leaches me clear of hateful intensity, I'm filled to the brim a salty sea; Regret is a dove only I can free. |