One from a master, this beautiful poem moved me.
Sweet and sour
Pot Noodle memories
that remind me,
I would rather be lonely
than ‘only’ anything.
I could quite easily
simply by refraining
to an audience,
that does not read,
but reads into.
They sought the shadow in the shell,
telling stories of her youth in hope
the memories would remind her,
but the kind were blind and the rope
twitched, she kicked without falling,
silently calling for someone to kill her past,
and, at last, there was peace without pain,
the strain ceased, released, she danced her last.
My corrupted conscience,
a gift to gods at odds
with their religion.
The shrike strikes
the grim harvest,
to the empty coffer
at the alter,
altering the faltering footsteps
of a faith –
fallen on hard times.
Again, the view of empty pews,
greets the chaplain.
Extricate the extrovert,
liberate the liar,
the science of mythology,
contradicts the smitten,
the chance to dance
with all, as yet unwritten.
It’s just my bones that lie here,
I want it written on my grave,
as my soul was sold so long ago,
so keep your prayers, and save
your tears; for the years I gave
you are worth more than the loss.
Wherever I am, I love you,
don’t be cross. I ask one last thing
of you, my one wish, my final boon,
live your life, be free and please;
don’t come and see me soon.
For reasons I am too frightened
a ridiculous sense
of over-salted porridge.