Epitaph, Entreated

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.


Grave Thoughts

Who remembers fallen heroes?

Who reads their epitaph?

The empty rooms and frozen tombs,

chiselled cenotaph,

stark markers as reminders,

but memory soon fades,

the sword versus the shovel?

A song of blades and spades.


So poets pen their pieces,

carve, then starve a eulogy,

And the faeces of the species

will lie and cry for thee,

claim they knew you and through you,

find their own parade,

ignoring the boring,

actors acting, unafraid.


Forgetting fallen heroes,

before the grave is cold,

the autopsy of ancestry,

a story left untold,

are we ashamed if left unnamed?

Unharmed but alarmed by the credit?

if I were to write for my own headstone,

would it survive the edit?


A Darkness In The Spirit

Do you remember me? Do you know my middle name?
It is I that is responsible for you hating, I am to blame,
I am the lost boy they laugh at, the bottle of destruction by my side,
You said you would save me, that you’d hold on to me, I guess you lied.
I don’t sleep until I pass out, the ghost of a whisper, the shadow of a kiss,
Bad dreams, it is a fitful rest, I cry in the night over memories of those I miss,
The darkness, no comfort, but at least no one can see,
The tears, the heartache, the haunting; the missing parts of me.
The silence is stupid, a moronic sound of the night,
There are things that I would ask of Jesus but he loves only the light,
Frustrations fuelled by arseholes and I really miss my friend,
Frosted flowers, a gift left by her grave, nothing but pain in the end.


Effort number two for Sreejit Poole’s Dungeon Prompt: Chaos

The Farewell Spell

That was the sound that floated on the breeze,
A lilting titter, melodious, infectious, it seemed
As others in the congregation began to smile and giggle.
Many wiped tears from their faces, unashamed
At their presence as the laughter filled
The room and fled towards the cemetery.
The laughter tickled the trees, brushing
The grass and flowers with sunshine
Before fading slowly like a memory.
And it did not seem inappropriate,
It was necessary, we believed
He would have loved that there was laughter at his grave.