Sleeping In the Rain
Every step forward brings an
energised momentum. Leading
me toward a portal which leads
me to the Styx ferryman
I am confronted with this resoundingly
unique shape, the emblem of its industry.
His coffin puts out its tentacle seeking my
name
Past aisles filled with '***-ash' Lils and lipstick
smothered whore's, I walk inexorably
on. Past the row of walking stick,
benefits claiming, blue badge carrying,
hand-me-downs.
And those 'mutter-under-the-Breath' blue
veined brigade, always ready to Judge the
dress you've chosen for such a solemn occasion.
Well, today I didn't let them down!
When I get there, what I see is a pseudo-realistic
pantomime. A Frieze of alibaster-marbeled
features, a mask of barely recognisable
'What used to be'
I'm confused. Am I supposed to love
this empty form of you? Should I kiss
your brow? And taste the loss of you
on my lips.
Or enter into a pact of believing that
you lie there, waiting to kiss me back.
What I want is to be guaranteed this
will never happen to me again.
I want to be able to give my love to
someone and not have it thrown back
when their 'use by date' has expired
I want the time, before time stopped,
to start again. I want the muscles in my
neck to become unknotted and my wine
bill to become averagely normal again.
Oh, and I want his wife to know I
was the other woman
Copyright © Terry Robinson | Year Posted 2015
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