bees wax poetic on a dusty record player
warped ancient vinyl dancing circular
designed to emanate symphonic melody;
instead a discordant sound.
I stood in the doorway and watched her cry
that last bit of life we shared now gone,
extinguished in a single barbed comment
because we went to bed angry.
what should have been whimsical and delicious
now the tinny cat gut sound of dying affection.
heat swelters through this old stick frame house
baking the trapped occupants to a sickly sticky end.
while the world spins oblivious outside
the night calls out, but the stars can’t reach;
light dimmed by the cloud of emotion that hangs
damp and deep over our heads.
sweat from frustrations long pent up
soaks the sheets where we once tossed.
words should be so poetic but fall hollow on a page
hollow as the sound of an empty chamber in the gun,
hollow as the sound of an empty glass that once held liquor
and dreams and romance and desires and lust
all things that would have made this life complete
but for the fact that effort couldn’t compete with impotence.
and now Ginsburg himself can hear the howl;
tortured scream of pain that should have been mistaken for ecstasy
now sounds of an animal in its death throes.
if only a simple apology could fix all the wrongs
a kiss good night could say all the things that needed said.
we might not be here now wasting away
dying of thirst because we are too oblivious to notice
we were each others’ resuscitation.
too late too bad so sad now gone.
the world has moved on and I wasn’t invited.
© 2013 p.hill