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Mark Jones Poem
One last trip down memory lane,
one last look at the house of pain,
with busted windows and empty shell,
and stagnant, stinking, wishing well.
Into the kitchen where love once toiled,
the dish now cold, its flavour spoiled,
no seasoning here, no spice of life,
just a rusting, bloodied, carving knife.
Into the front room where passion once flamed,
the glow long dead, extinguished by blame,
just ashes remain of this funeral pyre,
not even an ember of burning desire.
Back into the garden of nettles and weeds,
its barren black earth unsown by seeds,
the gardener’s gone, his tools are all downed,
he jumped in the wishing well and almost drowned.
One last walk from memory lane,
no last look back at the house of pain,
I hear a voice beyond its walls,
a beautiful voice that echoes and calls.
Copyright © Mark Jones | Year Posted 2005
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Details |
Mark Jones Poem
They gathered at the foot of the stinking bed,
silently witnessing the final rasping breath,
of a once beautiful, heaven-sent thing,
now decaying and rotting and fumbling for death.
Jealousy held hands with envy and sneered,
tears fell like tombstones from her spiteful eyes,
'I love you' she whispered from poisonous lips,
'even though you represent all that I despise'.
Betrayal nodded his head and grinned,
the mask that he wore did not reveal his eyes,
he blew the kiss of death across the room,
safe and warm in his heavy disguise.
Misery bowed his head and moaned,
why did he have to be here in this terrible place,
he just wanted to go back to his shallow grave,
all of this solemnity was more than he could face.
The form on the bed slowly melted away,
vanishing like a dream never to return,
betrayal and jealousy turned and walked slowly away,
as misery mourned for the love that they'd spurned.
Copyright © Mark Jones | Year Posted 2005
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