The exclusive rights to grief were taken:
Shouted from lips that could never be kind,
Painted on a face that had never seen,
Twisted in the belief of false guiltlessness,
And pointed at the remaining husk of me.
The cold iron gates stood heavy in judgement,
Separated the self-righteous from the sinner.
The one heart that beat love to both sides,
A heart once so swollen and overflown
That it willed there to be a second pulse,
Had burst its banks and bled out silently.
Emptiness is the disease that devours joy,
Turning time into a weapon of contagion
Until we're all wasted and spent in heaps
Of decaying flesh and worthless broken bones.
A death lived and re-lived in cyclical attack,
Feeding on the casualties that too have fallen
Into the welcoming arms of temptations Union.
When those gates sighed their disapproval
How sweet was that call to be swallowed whole
By the ravishing teeth of an irreversible vice
And no longer be blamed by that judgement.
Chipped polish on keratin
Formed instruments of misery
Against the carved ivory candlestick,
But played in time and one half
Between clicked wooden heels
And shuffle scuffed leather toes.
Shrieking warped wood boards
Bemoaned the restless pacing
Until eased by the storm’s drippings
Rolled from the oversaturated linen.
Youth kept the nightdress white,
Precisely creased on double pleat
Perfumed in almond and rice starch.
The insipidness of immaturity
Creeped up the ironed dart lines
To satiate the linen’s thirst for spoil,
And seeped into the recurring path
In a bogged mix of clay and blood.
The sludge had smudged the vows
Between the ruby and diamond ring.
Lightning had taken exception,
Or so it would have seemed,
To the metal cockerel above the well.
It’s striking boldly lit the sodden grass
To illuminate a solitary jacquard spat
Encased, leather, side button boot.
He’d sworn himself inconspicuous once,
Yet adorned himself so pretentiously
For the eyes of the unwed maidens
On the night he was intended to wed.
The dusty manor house windows
Did not hide the ostentatious footwear
From the overwhelmed on looker
As she bit her nails cuticle bare.
Had he simply fallen, she’d be asleep
For the drunkard had overindulged
On pints of overtaxed Thames Gin.
But he cracked his crown on limestone
Before his legs lost the ability to hold
His brainless form to full attention.
Inebriation settled most heavily
In the bones of his shaking wheeze.
Had not the split of his mindless skull
Incapacitated his conscious movement,
His well wished departure would be,
To the greatest of detest and chagrin,
Replaced by opiate coma numbing
As his bride rode Peeler’s prize
In a carted cage of lucid lunacy
And cursed language of wicked folk.
Luck had been her bedfellow,
Strength her mightiest gift giver,
And determination: her kind muse.
No sooner could he groan in ache
Than his moaning was quick silenced
In the crunch of crumbled spine
That met with a barren dark age well.
Her hand warmed by the liquid wax,
She stopped pacing to reflect with joy
At the sickening sound of lifelessness.
Burn me to beyond my flesh,
Until charcoal becomes my bones,
Prepared to fall into unskilled hands,
And trace amateur musings on cheap paper.
Remake my ashes into your altar,
Ready to receive sacrilegious homages,
Prayers filled to the brim with debasement,
As you pick your false God, or God’s,
And punish each other for differing choices.
Betray my actions with your memories,
Portray as a fictitious being of your design,
Claim dominion over your perception,
And pass on your contortions to your kin.
Teach them of my misery and woe,
Belittle my mistakes to lowly choice,
A haphazard misstep by misstep,
That led to inevitable brimstone.
Pretend me to be a sinner in life,
And a fiery withered soul in death,
As you picture thick sulfuric gasses,
Turn and swirl in my remnants of lung,
Catching breathless behind my tongue.
But don’t scream when your lack of reformation,
Stemming from absence of self-reflection,
Leaves you burnt on my named headstone.