For Chris On the 1st Anniversary of Your Suicide
I guess he lost his way when
he left the beaten path,
I guess he was confused when
instinct and logic crashed.
I guess he killed his brain cells
with alcohol and hash,
I guess that his insanity
held him firmly in its grasp.
Asleep, I guess his paranoia
seemed to grow and bloom,
I guess he sensed something
paranormal in the room.
I guess his blackened pupils
must have scanned and searched the gloom,
I guess he thought he heard the
icy rattle of the tomb.
He pretended to have a job, I'm told,
and daily left the house,
then sat all day in the cellar,
I'm told, as quiet as a mouse.
I heard that when she wasn't there,
he sometimes wore her clothes,
I imagine him sashaying
on his man-sized tippy-toes.
His insanity made him mad, i guess,
if that makes any sense,
I know his thoughts were warped though,
by no coincidence.
I see him in a fetal posture,
vulnerably curled.
I see him having lost all hope
and contact with the world.
I see him sitting all alone,
re-reading what he wrote,
a madman's twelve page ranting
in his sad and final note.
©Danielle White
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2009
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