Poetry of the Dead

 

Bringing up

the same old thing;

ruining our conversation.

If we don’t speak

what’s on our minds,

we will betray our hearts

for certain.

 

Stammering out another

line from a decrepit script.

You pretend to hear me,

but the effort you put in

to your charade

is less

than it used to be.

 

I wish everything were poetry.

Every word

set into the cadence

of our heartbeats,

and every act

in time with the revolutions

of the planets.

 

I wish everything

I said,

or did

was undeniable

and impactful

as nature.

Maybe then,

we wouldn’t be back here.

 

Maybe then,

I could tell you the truth;

that I am dying.

Not from some disease,

but from the lack

of meaning in my life.

Meaning that you swore

you would provide.

 

Instead, I muddle through the day,

trying to please the indifferent

and soothe the hostile.

At the end of the day,

my only confessors come

in bottles and cans,

smoked in holy incense.

 

I wanted poetry.

I wanted my life to mean something.

I thought

that if I learned the words,

and the rhythms,

and the melodies,

I could speak the language

of inspired moments.

 

I thought I could hope,

and that hope alone

would sing to me

like a bird

lighting upon the tree

outside my window,

welcoming me

to join the day.

 

Every word a chorus,

and every moment a song.

Each conversation

a doorway

to a new, hidden world.

Experience

has taught me

all of the hard lessons.

You have been

the arbiter

of those experiences.

 

I have decided

that we don’t have to have

this conversation

any longer.

I have learned from you

the poetry of dead things,

and the dead.

have no need of poetry.

 

I will describe life

from every moment

of my days;

on and on,

without you.

I will find my voice

and I will sing,

unafraid.

 

 

HG – 2022

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