Printed from WriteWords -


by  ella james

Posted: Sunday, June 07, 2009
Word Count: 257
Summary: autobiographical poem

Old age was not meant for him.
Never would he know the pains of old bones
Nor the folds skin flops into,
Hiding crumbs in the dark and stray hairs
That edge nearer the light like potato sprouts.
Nor aches that remind me I am hurtling slowly
Towards my own bed in the ground,
Inhaling death with each breath
Until there are no more.
From the stresses of existence, he escaped.

I missed his passing,
Knowing only once his sweet body
Had been reduced to ash,
Not unlike the ends of the cigarettes
His mouth was once so attached to.
A cloud of sadness, like the clouds he would exhale
Surrounds me. Still,
I cannot reconcile this. My strong man
Reduced to cinders
That were scattered whilst I slept.

Memories of us always bring
Tears that caress my folds.
My eyes will never again absorb his beauty.
Our perfectly matched lips forced apart by
Two wheels, spitting out the dirt
And spattering the path like his body did
As it crashed down, splintered beyond repair.
Both of us motionless, but
I heard his faint cry of my name
And then it went black.

A weathered white cross
Springs out of the ground.
It droops like an old snowdrop
Bearing withered white petals,
And showers flaky paint. This is our confetti.
He is still 23 and will always be
The sweet man I would not keep.
I am punished for my survival,
With the pains of my old bones and skin that folds,
I wait for my passing.