Poem for Sunday: Grief

by Holly Baker


"Six months . . ." breathed poisonous lips in stale air,
The thoughts from a lifetime splattered on cold metal,
A numb mind, ruptured by a single needle,
Letting the weight of air squeeze life from precious bodies,
Leaving only an insipid flavour sown into the tongue.
It's the beginning of the end.


A ceaseless void forced away from consciousness,
Buried beneath a wall of memories,
Bursts of the exquisite tastes of high summer,
The feel of lamb's wool and fires, when the landscape is paper white,
When love so intense radiates through a glance.
Not ready to forget.


Thick clouds of ash engulf dead eyes,
Sparks from the tongue of a serpent fly,
An eruption of destructive despair, personal downfall,
The strong remain as the selfish flee,
Shaking, shouting, turning everyone away.
Not ready to forget.


If only . . .
Countless hours spent in the orange glow of evening sunlight,
Wondering how different life could be.
Several glances upwards with a look of plea in the eye.
A bullet wound in the mind.
Not ready to forget.


Greying eyes haunted by the shades of a successful life,
Watching as fate approaches, cloaked in black,
Taken over by a progressing ache spewing from a blackened soul,
Insanity screaming as the mind begins to plummet,
Day by day, the darkness draws in.
Not ready to forget.


When the golden sun sends its rays upon cloud,
Rolling over green meadows, sweet smells of spring,
Bird songs sounding from grand oak trees by the lake,
Forest green leaves, dancing rhythmically by day,
Thrashing menacingly by night, seizing moonlight.
Let the night be my darkness.