Featured Review on this writing by hullabaloo22

The Usher-Man's Blind Man's Ghost

Reads: 179  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: The Imaginarium
An usher at a funeral watches the burial of a blind man who, although poor and alone, lived a life that touched many people and was mysteriously joyful. Reflecting on his own life he realizes that his life is a tragedy, but in his sorrow he also finds redemption. There is still time to make a difference.

I am feeling rather retrospective.

Submitted: September 14, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 14, 2019

A A A

A A A


I built for myself a home of filth far among the stately graves

where I might waller deep in a dreadful sleep deep within the bitter caves

and upwards high my scream did fly but only to be heard in vain.

For the waters deep, they do not sleep, nor do they wash away that pain

that unsightly creeps in my thoughts so deep—that masterpiece of bane.

 

So black a soul should not exist, such shadowy mind ‘tis most unfit,

but for rage and sigh it would not die and fell I then into Rage’s pit,

where bound in chains, they seer my brain and madder still they make my mind

and my body twists from the horrid rips and my soul I cannot find.

With burns so deep, I cannot speak, nor writhe my bones against that bind.

 

For what seemed at first delicious sweet was all but a trick in hind

and my foolish wit went much adrift and downward deep did wind.

My hands become the Sire death—a tragic guest at my own wake.

And what once was thrilling, I now deem shrilling, to be alive on a burning stake

that I myself made from a gallow’s shaft, a blightly and noxious ache.

I wait upon a thousand nameless graves and all this then would I unmake.

 

But the blind man borne to the grave forlorn, though his life had seemed accursed

was more esteemed than kings and dreams built by men whose mortal fame is versed

in the brandished halls and the august walls where the sleepless never sleep in a drunken thirst

and in my blackest mind I did find that I am one of these fools who walk the night inversed

searching for a breathless space where I may hide my shameful waste of life transversed.

 

The mourners chant on a lonely tune spun to the dreams of the dying who—

in their life met great strife but in the brevity of time they gave no words in true—

for the hopeless and harried, the fallen and weeping whose spirits scarred in blue

remember a time, a broken time, when the blinded and beggars did not eschew

a life of grace—though their souls never immortalized in a silver, stoney statue.

 

Remember, I must, the words of that man though passed he now to unknown lands

that swifting time is not sublime she comes quietly in the dead of night and out of my hands

she steals the latch that from this door dissevers life from that of death in sands that drift in the wind

and erode with time—that gentle rhyme—that deceives us into a dream we think shall never end.

And this I learned at the funeral of the usher-man’s blind man’s ghost: that time I must amend.


© Copyright 2019 L.E. Belle. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply