With a besom and broomstick

The wounds that I lick

Are cleaned for the day.

But they don’t go away.

They eat into the soul

Eating into a hole

Where my heart used to be.

The heart that was big

Until you left our home our children and me.

Then it shrivelled and died

How often I cried.

But no matter how long I moaned on and on

No matter how many tears you were still gone.

And I was alone in the house no longer the home.

Just a box filled with memory

(as you are locked into mine)

Like the day in the cemetery

When it was pouring with rain

And I was pouring out pain

That mixed in with the rain at everyone’s feet.

One day we will meet…again

Free from this pain.

Until then…………….


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. PoetJanstie
    Jun 19, 2011 @ 09:29:31

    Gosh that was not amusing, but very moving, John. I’ll not ask where it came from, cause I know enough from the poem.


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