Alone With The Lie

Alone With The Lie



I am forced to wear a mask today.
For a year, I’ve plastered my face
with one. The lies I tell myself are
just a fleeting attempt to convince
the world I’ve not gone insane.
I am unconvinced I am sane.

I am called stoic. Does anyone know
what terror lies beneath this expression?
A happy resolution is what ‘they’ expect,
I am no longer happy, content, tranquil.
Numb is what I feel. Is numbness a sensation?
A feeling that thrives? Or a reservoir we fall into
pretending we are still alive?

How do I continue living this lie?
Each day remains unchanged.
My body experiences the same, vast dark
separation as the day I stood at your grave,
able to wear my veil of black,
covering the unrelieved agony
I witnessed when passing my reflection.
I am flayed open, the ugliness of
never healing steals what was once
your sweet perfume.

I still cannot bear flowers.
Cloying scents of roses and carnations
cling with defiance, permeating my air with
their fragrance of death. Never again
do I want to see a carpet of red blooms
adorning mahogany, or urns of gladioli
with spired cuttings reaching out, as if
they were a sunburst shining on the assembled.
I wish no scent, no reminders
of things living as I struggle with infinity.

Had I been able, I would have slipped
atop your coffin, covering you with my love
until my days ceased, buried for eternity
in the blackened void of consciousness.

This burden is far too great to bear,
as if a stone were dropped into my core,
sinking me daily to the pits of despair.
I cannot breathe; the lack of oxygen within
my abyss grows stagnant with longing,
the air inadequate to sustain life.

My heart and brain are non-existent,
struggling daily to remain alive.
My heart sways in my cavity of life.
A clapper creating no sound, deadened
far beyond what I must endure.
Death’s mortal grasp spreads its stifling stain,
buffering the sounds of my screaming mind.

I am separated.
The Grim Reaper’s scythe quick and sure.
Leaving me—alone.

© Copyright 2006 P. A. Matthews/E. A. Irwin (UN: pmatthews at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
P. A. Matthews/E. A. Irwin has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.