A poem based off experience |
The girl’s shiny charcoal shoes click up the steps Though her heels sink into the autumn mush The mahogany door creaks open upon a ginger push She is only here to see an old friend This is where they told her their journey ends In the Victorian house with peeling paint In the little bed she sees where he lay On a pillow white as the bark of willow The amber light softly dancing on his hair’s golden hay When she calls out, Her name he does not say true His eyes do not flicker open To reveal twin pools of blue He does not reach out to touch her But if she truly were that bold She would find That his hands are stiff and cold Casting her into the darkening blur Liquid glass begins to pool Seeping out the ledges of her eyes When she knows that she has been fooled Down the pane of her face rolls salty rain, Washing away the fog Revealing repressed pain Till everything before her became clear Under his lashes they had sewn his eyelids closed Suffused through the room was the smell of sickly rose He was not lying in the bed of his room But in the cold casket that was to be his tomb He was not asleep But in the relentless rest She could only weep And pray that the shovels Bury him deep |