My heart is strangled
With the sad taste of
Bitter,
Empty
Black.
Not the rich, soulful black of coffee,
But rather, I taste
The black finality
Of nothingness,
Of the charred remnants
Of what had once been a home.
My home.
Our home.
Blackened.
A home that once stood.
Stood for something.
Something earthy, solid, and...
Good.
Stood for us,
Stood with us,
Stood between us and...
Anything,
Everything.
Once stood.
Now it lies...
Nowhere.
Now it is...
Not.
Now it is...
Blackened.
What once was,
Is now reduced
To a seemingly insignificant
Collection of sad, twisted objects.
Gutted, emaciated, vacant shells
Of their former selves.
A scorched button.
A shattered Hearthstone.
A puddled lump of
Stained glass was the door that
Once seemingly separated
Our world
From a putrefying society
We did not want to see
Was a part of us.
Blackened.
Here,
An oval...
Rough...
Twisted...
Engagement ring,
Stone shattered by
Immense heat.
It's myriad pieces
Now no more than sand,
Entirely at the mercy
Of the vagrant whims of the wind.
Blackened.
Nothing,
Yet everywhere,
Forlorn impressions,
Rekindled,
If only for a last,
Brief moment,
Before resigning
To their undeniable fate.
Those odd, bent pipes
Near the kitchen sink
Where we once laughed
A burnt meal away down the drain...
Ahh, yes, legs of the table
That so rudely interrupted
A running toddler's excitement.
Blackened.
Over there,
Flat rectangle...
Wide as a pencil one way,
Width of my thumb the other...
A long groove on each side...
No, not grooves,
They once went all the way through,
An opening.
Now completely shut.
An opening for...
Oh... a ring finger.
A man's ring finger.
Blackened.
Mess of wires here...
Radio that once gave voice
To the primal emotions
Our lives consisted of.
Here, the concrete foundation
Of the bedroom
That heard soft whispers
Of sleepy lovers
And baby's lullaby.
Blackened.
There,
Nearly buried in ash...
Covered in soot...
Slender...
Curved...
Almost like...
A thumbprint on one end...
Baby's first silver spoon.
Salvageable, yet...
Blackened.
Not sure who needs
Such fine silver,
Yet, certainly someone will.
Anyhow,
Too precious to give up on.
Soft cloth,
And a little work
Should bring back
It's former glory and splendor
Like new...
On second thought,
I rather think a small bit of tarnish
Left in the details
Helps it's delicate intricacies
Shine all the more brightly...
Beautiful.
A fine Treasure.
The man's ring might be saved,
Should be saved.
It also is too good to abandon.
Much to repair,
But possibly,
With a bit more of the fire
That flattened it before,
Controlled this time,
It could be reopened
And again made fit
For it's intended purpose...
Certainly not as round
As it once was,
But comfortable again.
Another fine Treasure.
Seems such a shame,
The lady's ring.
No stone and all...
Twist would be simple to fix.
So too,
Surface smoothed easily.
But for the blaring emptiness,
Where the stone should be,
... Nothing I can replace,
But, passed on,
Surely someone can.
Another fine Treasure.
YOU ARE READING
What I 'Felt' To Say Was...
Poetry"Poetry can be therapy, so shut the door and get comfortable, we've been through a lot since our last visit. Glad to see you brought coffee. Just a reminder, I know this is expensive, but like life there are no guarantees. I do expect to stir s...
