Wee Hours
Another eve of another day
shrinks to wee hours;
the only light flashes dim
from a distant lamppost.
My mind’s contrarily still charged
with words, chores, lists, sacred places,
mountainous memories,
and then a thought that hasn't visited in awhile…of you.
You, a caricature of your best self,
a demon of strangled hearts,
a name chiseled into a monument of stone like expressions –
of numb feelings where tears no longer flow.
Love carried you through life…a family
bestowed a stave for your symphony,
undeserved yet wanted.
Have another drink…hide in your dank basement
drive aimlessly through town through lives through dreams
with your empty bottles sliding on the floorboard.
You became the monster of nightmares.
How did that happen? Why?
Did it lie dormant in hidden spaces?
Bottles shatter into a million pieces…they tear at souls.
Go ahead make a joke, tell a story of long ago,
sing a song with rich baritone notes…
I loved you once when pigtails brushed across my shoulders,
when you pushed me on a swing, when I was innocent…maybe
a part of me still loves who you were back then…the forgiving part of me.
Maybe if I knew all…the harrowing truth, the covered-up lies,
the sinister side, my forgiveness would be withheld.
No…some things are better left unknown.
Another eve of another day
shrinks to wee hours.
Years go by, and I think of you less…you, a man of good and evil,
you, who sang in the choir…every Sunday…
pretending.
I close my eyes with a conscious attempt
to find peace in forgiveness –
then comes thick darkness
as the flickering lamppost dies.
*a work of fiction
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