Home became no place to seek asylum,
So to the bar, he did turn.
Ales, spirits, draughts, and Ciders,
At the bottom of every glass, he saw himself,
Smiling and happy,
Though these visions were fleeting.
Outside these visions, he wore a make-shift smile,
A dull, polished visage of happiness.
Life became hard, fast and restless;
Wherein all he could do is survive,
Languishing under a dying sun.
From the bridge he surveyed,
Faces of sorrow, glances of woe.
He found solitude in one last glass,
And then-
There was no splash, despite the long drop. He'd already fallen as far as he could go.
And so,
Like a silent raindrop in an ocean did he fall,
Leaving behind nothing but a note:
"Sorry for the mess".
His wife moved on fast,
They say she never cared,
Although,
She never could help but pause,
Whenever she crossed that bridge.
Part of her upset,
Part of her lost;
Lost in his last three words that night,
Lost in what she called,
"a mistake"
YOU ARE READING
Every Trick In The Book
PoésieThis anthology of mostly narrative poems mostly revolves around real people's stories. People's real stories of war and peace, of love and heartbreak, of alcoholism and loss; they have been immortalized in this anthology.
