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Brewing Storm


I am angry, stripped bare
of my soul, of half my life,
the better half of me.

I want to smash photographs,
crush mementos of our dreams,
that mean no more to me
than dryer lint, dust, or cobweb strands.

I rip your picture from its gilded frame,
prepare to tear it into shreds, instead, instead
I kiss your sweet lips, try to brush
a stray red strand of hair from your eyes.

You promised you
would always be at my side
and now it’s I who must face a future
tormented by a broken promise,
a gulf of emptiness.

I rummage through dresser drawers,
scatter our life upon the bedroom floor,
smash what can be smashed.

Our son’s words, my son’s words,
“Don’t worry Dad, she is in a much better place,”
echo in the darkness of my mind.

Words that cannot, will not ever erase,
the pain that eats all hope away,
the pain that lingers
through the long, long days.

I wish I lay beside you
in your cold, cold grave.
Exhausted, I throw myself
upon our bed, try and remember
the last words you said.

How I miss the way you loved me,
tears weal as I hug your pillow tight,
and I surrender to the might, surrender
to the all consuming power of the brewing storm.

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