The Mourners in Bedlam

Bitter hard she came

Bitter she left us

So battered by her brain that

She exclaimed disasters

The floor flooded

The bathroom was on fire

The house was falling down around us

We were all going to die

Some dismissed her saying

‘She is doing this on purpose’

But she was long past purpose

In the end

No substance would prolong her life

She could not survive

Expectations for recovery

To don to the uniform of our fantasies

Lace dress and hat, soft chair and country outings

Her rallying cry was oblivion

She was the mourner of her own corpse

Her lack of control

Was ours

And could not be exorcised

By

Love

Devotion

Bargaining

Pleading

Swearing

Blaming

Pushing

Screaming

Tears

There was no force

That could give control

Over the weakness

That in its cruelty and wildness

Had such strength

In the end we wept

Our Requiem

We lost her today

We lost her

Secretly, we mourn that we never had any chance of finding her

Echoes of her prediction of apocalypse

the gift she left us in her empty room

6 thoughts on “The Mourners in Bedlam

      1. You fascinate me in a way I can’t describe. A lot of poetry that I read is a a result of studying the subject on an intellectual level, injecting passion academically, through an almost methematical knowledge of words, where perhaps no emotion exists. You are not one of those poets. You seem to absorb the essence of others, and then tell it like they can’t; like it is. I hope that I do the same, at least sometimes. it doesn’t matter how it hurts; what matters is that you feel it, and you can extract beauty from the grotesque.

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