Afterlife.

12.8.08

“Where hath all the pain gone?”

my heart wonders aloud;

I see it there, all so clear,

but vulnerable my heart isn't

to it anymore.

I merely read the symptoms,

the aching of the heart.

I merely remember what hell is,

but feel, I cannot—though fibers of me

do tingle from the fear.

Still, I don't feel as though everyday is normal.

But then again, what defines ordinary?

Is it just a day in the afterlife,

just living past my death?

I scold myself, “Why can't I feel?

I'm not happy, so why don't I feel sad?”

Maybe all the other poems

were only complaints of some hidden tide

Deep inside, I now I cannot accept this.

Living through another's tears and not my own.

Not a drop for the pain of the past six months.

Still, when I see him, then I understand

why it felt like I couldn't live, had no point.

The ghost of him is all that this is

My numbness has grown like a pearl

over and around him, like a silent tomb.

He was a stumble in my life.

A fervent light blocking my road.

I have grown stale and cold, molding,

swallowing him whole like the way he

clouds my nightmares and dreams.

And if I have truly grown used to him

not being in my life anymore,

then my existence has eroded on

the distance and darkness:

Life's bitter realities.