Aren’t you ever the penance,
the saviour for my sins,
giving me a scapegoat,
from all that lurks within.
How dare they look at me,
with all my faults and gloat,
can’t they see this pain,
and tussle with the goat.
This horn and fleece,
this wolf and berceuse,
if ever a wrestle,
to lull and cease.
These dragging feet,
bones that creak,
grip strong, fingers weak,
solid, astute, meek.
And all your cohorts,
a reply to this deceit,
the gathering pool,
where flesh, grey matter and vapour meet.
Ay this grief,
is just irreconcilable,
unpicked,
meat between teeth.
And we all know,
how quick meat rots, and stenches,
hence why this grief feels like
vice grip clenches.
It lingers and lingers,
pungent,
always on your fingers.
Stains your sheets,
you wake up in sweats,
remembering someone,
un-relinquishing debt.
W.E.
lonerloaner 