It had been a comin’
In her thousand yard stare, her Gainsboro hair,
The quivering hands that shivered in the air
And babbling lips between mouthfuls of soup.
The full eclipse of the moon, by dawn
She was drawn out on a loop for a loon,
And soon not even a spoon could be raised
In those veiny, tremulous fingers.
No blindfold of yours lingered much, did it?
What use is the gold in her jewelry now?
Rich in grievances, manifold regrets
And cold rooms, mold growing on the ceilings,
Portraits hanging on the walls, and you
Kneeling to a god you don’t believe in
And praying for the healing of a carcass
Who used to feed you and heed
Your jabbering rants and ignominious deeds.
Who bows down now,
Now that the twilight has toppled your crown?
Who comes around like your reflected frown,
The memory of her gown and your derelict playground,
The bed you made yourself for years and slept on,
The pillow that soaks up your tears
And cushions your fears in the terrors of sleep?
The plague rushed her burial too,
Some vague gospel read aloud in a vacant church,
Not a handful of souls standing in the nave,
And the birch casket quickly lowered to her grave.
You can spare us the sob story.
Selfishness rears its hoary head.
Now your laments and the things unsaid
Echo in the halls of your house for the dead.