I felt like sitting in the corner of a darkened room,
with lillies and a balloon, to watch it drift until
it bounces against artex sharpness; to burst?
or float back down over time - shrunken and lost
It was not to be, not allowed
I am here, in a gladrag black-stained reality
Worshipping your demise with tears and sobs
that intermittently accept the kind words
with polite nods that say I cannot speak right now
Only neologisms can save this day
in another language -
far away.
The swathed silk of a death-box is echoed in this makeshift space
Intoxication in a tent, made for the stink of remembrance
Suffocated gatherings; all exits hidden amongst rancid fabric
The playlist is you and you alone -
"You...
are...
my...
angel"
Will the grave markers be side by side?
Engraved with hearts and doves;
maybe embedded with a small, gold frame
The ones that keep your photographs safe from the cold
whilst telling strange visitors that this was once so real
Or maybe they will hutch you both up in one hole?
eternally fighting for room (and the duvet)
a dual feed for flora, thriving on putrid juices
and rotting flesh.
The lights blow, the satin billows, glasses shatter
the mourners cease their morbid revelry
A wisp of something flies, it becomes dark and cold
I start to smile, I knew you would come
Never one to miss a party, especially your own
The drapes are dragged and torn
your guests cower in the missing corners
their faces morphing into true-form; monstrous hatred
A hurricane rips through this fake parlour
It rampages against the non-existent boundaries of grief
"Have fun" appears, dripping in blood-red graffiti
from the presentation stage - the focus ... the pyre
Your memorial table is cleared within seconds
The carefully wrapped tokens of patronising sympathy
crash to the felt-boarded floor, mingling with party trash
A gentler light enters (stage left), calming your hateful storm
Facing each other, cancelling out their judgement
You picked her up and left then, forever
- after that final "fuck you"
with an angry last shout; you are gone
I told them you wouldn't like those flowers
but they didn't listen;
so I'll stand before your lolly-stick cross
underneath my see-through umbrella, in the rain
Remembering the time we cremated hope, very quickly
~ Copyright Charlotte Sometimes aka SRWB 2010
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