The rails feel cold on my fingertips as I
Descend down the stairs
That winter leaving the hospital, you behind
As usual, they say you’ll pull through
But instinct tells me it shouldn’t have taken this
Long
Long as lonely nights which pass like a pontoon
In the throes of thunderous waves on the high seas
And so strange, the torment, if only the gun had been
On safe, last winter would not have passed so bitter
Yet, hope tells me they are right, and your recovery will be
Slow
The mirror haunts back an image of a man who has seen
Death from an empty bottle
Each restless eve I drink away the memories of the days
When you were here with me, you scoundrel!
I told you never to touch that cold killing machine, my breaths die
Short
Cascades of consolation rest at my door in envelopes
As if a mailman left them there in sheer pity, avoiding the box
Next to the drive, and the cold comes once again, three winters it has been
You’re lead-leaden body now shows a familiar pair of eyes
You tell me to bend low, say, “I wanted to end the pain.
Of letting you know I cannot love you.” And as I leave…
The great specters of misery and scorn weigh heavy on my eyes
They say, “He will not make it through the night.”
The rails are cold, but not so cold as the reality of death, its venom poisoning so
Fast
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