The Angry and Frustrated Poets
Two; both knew that it is a universal and a painful truth that people's lives come and go. It is to end; sooner or later. One can only accept the given fate and continue moving forward. Despite this belief, she refuse to accept it. She refused to accept that the pure flower in His garden has been plucked out and now cannot be seen.
Josephine held her breath to stop tears from trickling down, she clam her mouth shut and bit her lower lip—she tightens her hold towards the bouquet of her favorite flowers as she tries to eat her scream of agony. Hidden deep within her soul. By keeping her silence is her way of coping to process this intensity of an emotion. As a petal flew out by the wind—there also goes her ounce of refusal to believe this was all true. All of these was a fragment of her imagination/dream. An imagination that needed to stop—a dream she must woke up from.
Biting her fingernails is a bad habit that might caused her late mother to roll in her grave; ‘That is not lady-like, J---’ Oh the hell with her! This is her way of breathing and calming down.
‘Here lays the grave of a kind---’
She didn't finish reading the written thing before throwing the flower towards the side before storming out. That kind and beautiful person that became a significant person in her life has now vanished, actually, five feet under ground. She has no words to say for a speech, no words to describe how down to earth she was. How patient and understanding.
Before the service, the daughter had given her a notebook of all the poems she had written. Josephine saw it. Every words were laced with tinge of emotion that Josephine had caused—she would never forgive herself. Rather than talking, she wrote her a reply—as if the dead can write back but she has nothing to do does she? And right now, inside her dead friend's home, she sat down in one of the tables and started writing. Since the estate is given to Josephine's name, everything was hers now, but she does not intend to keep it.
As she dipped the pen in the ink, a small pool of ink smeared the newly opened paper as she stared at it intently. She struggles to write her best friend a reply—no, rather she struggles to put all of her thoughts into words. Words that would not sound as an excuse but rather an explanation and self-blame. Her mind wandered into many places, then landed onto the lake that can be view by the home's windows. The poet's lake, as her and she named it.
The lake where they wished to be buried. The lake where poets are allowed to be buried deep within its murky waters. But unfortunately, her friend had long forgotten that as she wished to be buried beside her husband. That memory, of the poet's lake had sparked an idea.
‘Be buried at poet's lake is a privileged,
Earned never given, as we both pledged,
We were at the hills when promises were made,
Have I forgotten how serious that promise were?
Be angry instead of happy,
And I'll not be frustrated as I'll be quiet
Two poets, in Sunday afternoon
Teas and laughter reaches the moon
But suddenly, the wind came
The cup shattered and so where your heart
My shaking hand on this quill and ink, then as the paper absorbed the ink, so did it did onto the water.
I'll cower until my last breath,
Watch as you dance on the dandelion fields,
From my asphodel garden.’
