Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Tomorrow, Today, Death

Tomorrow, he buries him
Bury with him the letters he wrote
            Poems and prose, limericks and sonnets
                        Of passion, of jealousy,
                        Of doubts, of anger,
                        Of sweet-nothings, of bodies tangled up last night
He wouldn’t write back
He wants to write more

The mist was thick and the pavement, wet
            yes, wet with their liquids
                        yes, liquids of love
He wore his scarf. He wore his jacket
The pavements won’t remember
That they were who they were
But he would,
                        Every step he’ll make,
                        On the same wet pavement,
                        On a day overpowered by mist,
He’ll let out a sigh

That fated day, he wanted to see him
But the storm is unquenchable, unforgiving, relentless
He never knew. They never knew
He was the one to make a final blow
                        It would scar him
And, he can never wound him back.

                        A few inches separate them
                        The space between his face and the glass was a few inches
                        His face was on the glass

No one was to blame.
All but timing - malevolent, insidious, cunning

                   Tomorrow, he buries him
                                    the unspoken words
                                    the unwritten prose
                                    the unknown songs
                                    Clothes unreturned

                                                                              Today, he grieves

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