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Thomas Swinscoe Poem
How can you be so cruel to play us both for fools? You’ve been with us for years watching through our tears.
I’ll bet you’re happy now. Why don’t you take a bow? You’ve taken something good – you always knew you could.
Do you plan to see it through – will you give us what is due? If you stay until the end, you might become a friend.
He’s asking now to die. You know the reason why. Come revel in my grief – give him a little peace.
Copyright © Thomas Swinscoe | Year Posted 2013
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Thomas Swinscoe Poem
You used to say my heart was cold. You had a point if truth be told. The highs and lows your passion bred led me to choose a reasoned head.
The years I spent avoiding pain have all come back to stake their claim. I cry for me – I cry for you. It’s left to me to cry for two.
My face contorts while yours is blank. We have the same disease to thank.
I’m quick to learn and caught on fast. An expert in the job at last.
Ironic how a coin will turn. You barely spark where now I burn. By abdication, feeling reigns. It isn’t such an awful change.
Another current in the flow – I’m conscious of the undertow. But navigate the grander track without a thought of turning back.
Copyright © Thomas Swinscoe | Year Posted 2013
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Thomas Swinscoe Poem
I’m breaking from the weight of all the people I’ve become. The newest is a parent who must live with what he’s done.
You still know how to hate me now for doing what I do. I take away the things you love – the things that make you you.
When you forget about the hate and other things you know, an awful sort of peace will fall and cover us like snow.
Then once again you’ll hold my hand – your eyes might ask me why. I know that you won’t understand the reason that I cry.
Copyright © Thomas Swinscoe | Year Posted 2013
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Thomas Swinscoe Poem
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mean to make you cry. I wanted you to touch my pain – I’m really not sure why.
How did I think to give away this precious thing I have? The pain I feel, it comes from him – it’s something that we share.
The fear, the rage, the awful hope that live inside him still will, day by day, be put aside. Time knows how to kill.
The day will come – the bleakest one – I wonder what I’ll see when I look in a pair of eyes that don’t look back at me.
On that day, I share no more – the pain is mine alone. I hope that it will be content to stay in its new home.
In time the pain will leave me, too. But, what will take its place? Will emptiness and nothingness look better on my face?
Copyright © Thomas Swinscoe | Year Posted 2013
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