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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 14, 2016

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Submitted: November 14, 2016



Johnny sat in thought;
the room was chilly,
the light was out,
he was in the dark,
just the moon in the sky
with a sprinkle of stars,
a hum of traffic
down below.

Frankie died slow,
slower than we thought it'd be,
her there wired up,
lights flashing on and off,
voices from along the ward.

Not as we thought it'd end:
too soon, she too young.

He took out a cigarette
and lit up, watched the smoke
rise upwards as he exhaled.

What was it Pascal said
of the night expanse?
He couldn't recall now,
didn't seem to matter somehow.

She liked talking deep things,
looking down dark places
for truth whatever
that was or might be:
in dark you can't see.

He inhaled slow and deep;
she died slow, not how
we expected years back.

He sighed, recalled the first time
they met: she in that long
slim dress all in black,
and she said: I mourn
for the world.

Who mourns for her now
except for me?

I feel her near
or is it just waves
from some distant sea,
or her talking
inwardly to me.

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