Today has been National Poetry Day in the UK. It’s also been one of those days when I’ve wondered more than usual why the world has to be the way it is. In honour of both these facts, I thought I’d post a poem here tonight. The poem’s called ‘Epitaph’. It was written for someone I lost a little over a year ago, whose life could have been so much more than it was. But I suppose that’s part of the human condition.
Epitaph
You were a vintage Jaguar,
racing green with leather seats,
rusting in a corner of the yard,
a rosewood chest
whose drawers were stuffed
with things I didn’t want.
You were a plump pear, overripe
and rotten at the core.
You were a game of poker,
where you always marked my cards.
An old black hat
that hid your eyes,
threw shadows on your face.
You were naked fear, disguised
as everlasting love.
You were the empty bottles
in the puddle on the floor,
the stench of unwashed flesh,
stale smoke and sweat,
infused with alcohol.
bluesinateacup 