FEASTS OF GRIEF

Wretched, a remnant of before
you left me
What do I care for your name?
Why shout it?
Should I bother with tears?
Or as many as you said my name
to equal the number
Why should I give
a damn now about yours?
You were dying
when you were lying
Now you are dead.

I am here living,
or at the very least standing –
breathing low before
your marred headstone,
watching nature at her best;
her nocturnal creatures draw close
towards your grave.

In my mind they feast
but sour memories and grief
make them unmentionable fiends –
that wanted to make a macabre feast
of your bloated body,
and I let them – brittle bones now
rattle in the dust,
still all I can see is anger.
I hate you right now.
You are dead
where all the dead are at long last
at peace.
Laughing to myself
beneath my tears,
my eyes fill with images
of your drunk days
and slurred nights,
‘Did you ever love me?’
I wondered ceaselessly.
Does it matter now?

Poets say, ‘the dead have no cares
for anything, ‘they are, after all, dead.

Unresolved issues?
As many as throwaway tissues
and I am spent.
Damned right there are issues!
There will always be a legacy
bequeathed me;
uncertainty here for me in the living,
a breathing reminder
that you once lived in this world,
and while you lived I died, faded,
a mere shadow, bent, broken –
a servant in waiting
awaiting your orders,
waiting for love or a sign
not found inside glass,
poured from a heart
instead.
I brought you
what you craved
I thought I brought you happiness
and filled the hole as black as my life today.
All I brought was your next drink.

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11 thoughts on “FEASTS OF GRIEF

  1. To all my readers of this piece, I wanted to say Thank You for your thoughts and compliments. I must say that is, was a very cathartic experience for me to write this and what I am certain for my other writes to follow.

    Liked by 1 person

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