irishwriter's Journal

Black

I remember the two days that lasted countless years

when there existed only the wounds

of yesterday and the salt in them of today.

Tomorrow was an endless following

of all those todays, when the lure of

the end of a rope, the exhaust of a car

or even the stash of pills held it’s own in the

dead of night.

When acting ‘as if’ and ‘I’m fine’ became

as comfortable as a soft old coat, long past

its ‘donate to Oxfam’ date.

Life and the desire for it eating away the black

in the shock of Fintan’s end of play with suicide

in the pain and the knowing that every life

is missed in untold ways, in the leaving of

incomprehension in the hearts of those I was

so completely unable to see.