Hi fellow Steemians,
A (slightly depressing) poem dealing with grief.
BANQUO
That way you wake and know
immediately something has changed.
The ape I call body felt it in his bones.
The air carried a fresh resin. New
life on every tree. Each green bud
taunting me. You're not yet dead.
Peely-wally Scottish skin sunburnt
in July on Arthur's Seat, mocked
by my Aussie guests, and you're not
dead. Wet brown leaves stamped
into macadam, holding hands
with another doomed romance,
drinking again on weekends and still
you're not dead. Soon it will be frost
underfoot and pre-approved
presents and tense conversations
around a dry turkey and you
won't be dead. You'll hover,
like Banquo, at the edges,
but your mouth will carry no
message, only a silence
as heavy and impossible as death.
(Photo credit: Jesse Bowser, Unsplash)