To an empty glass of vodka, I said…
Not a rhyme or word in my head…
It’s all your fault, and of her in
my bed…
Though it’s a fact, there’s not a
thought, not even a shred!
The game was well played… now they’re
all dead,
Some reaped, some with a bullet in
their head…
The smell of dried blood… and
nightmares in my head…
But I move on… as if that life were
over… and I dead.
I think.. is it something I said,
something I did, some gal I laid?
Was it her… of whom I only dreamt,
never said a word, my letters shred!!!
I love her, can’t tell her, can’t
show her… cant her way, tread…
Maybe I’ll forget her, when I am truly
gone,
truly lost… most definitely… dead!
1 comments:
If I be the first of us to die,
Let grief not blacken long your sky.
Be bold yet modest in your grieving.
There is a change but not a leaving.
For just as death is part of life,
The dead live on forever in the living.
And all the gathered riches of our journey,
The moments shared, the mysteries explored,
The steady layering of intimacy stored,
The things that made us laugh or weep or sing,
The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the spring,
The wordless language of look and touch,
The knowing,
Each giving and each taking,
These are not flowers that fade,
Nor trees that fall and crumble,
Nor are they stone,
For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand
And mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand.
What we were, we are.
What we had, we have.
A conjoined past imperishably present.
So when you walk the wood where once we walked together
And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my shadow,
Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze across the land,
And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand,
And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon you,
Be still.
Close your eyes.
Breathe.
Listen for my footfall in your heart.
I am not gone but merely walk within you.
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