Categories
Poetry

your resting place.

I face my reflection
With a solemn realisation
I am not where I want to be.

She’s asking me again,
Yes, I see her, even without my glasses
With the most probing glances;
What I could have done differently
To make you happy.

No time to contemplate
It’s time to plaster on
Your Friday Best smile
With the selectively placed tear
The crowd is waiting,
In anticipation.
To step up and wipe that tear away,
The audience is impressed,
Wow, what a good friend –
Holding your hand in your time of distress.

After the pantomime of tear sweeping,
There’s the heartfelt embraces.
Solemn, tear stained faces.

Your routine of grief.
Trying your best not to forget
The smiling lights of those gone by
Into the afterlife.

In that pause after the play;
The flowers arrive by the very next day.
These are from the people
Who really stand by your side.
No games to play
No rules to abide.

At first, it is with your tears
You fill the flowerpot.
This dumb flower will
Never enter your thoughts –
Until one day, you see it wither
And you could not stand by and let another beautiful thing die.

The banal routine of keeping beauty alive,
Is enough to give you enough drive
Where there was nothing left on stage
To get you to tell the rest of the tale.

But of course, all beautiful things have end,
Would we appreciate beauty if we see it
Again and again.
The walking shadow we chase
The hour passes, you’ve had your say, –
This is your resting place

Three years down the line,
Here I am,
At your graveside.
Wise enough to understand,
She’s a hard-pleaser, your friend in the mirror.

All she wanted to see,
Would I try to be the best I could be.

And I know you could hear me,
Because I could clearly see,
The flower that accompanied me,
The brief candle in this night,
Is now at your graveside.

This is your resting place.

It’s like you waited
All this time
For me to come
And say my goodbyes.

This is your resting place.

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