Poetry |
Facing Truth
|
The hardest time they say,
is going to bed at night. I say that it is the waking time when madness moves me to utter “morning dear.” Words unheard, wither on the tongue. The light of day makes me see what isn't there. Fragments of last night begin to penetrate the fog. I recall sea wreckage from an invading convoy, casseroles, condolences, consolations, numbing me from consciousness. I couldn't wait for them to leave. It didn't take that long, given my lack of responsiveness. I rebutted offers to clean up, lying that I had help coming in the morning. When the last straggler left, my relief was short lived. The silence was unbearable. I looked around as if lost. All I saw was a lifeless mess. Mumbling and grumbling, I made my way to the bathroom. Startled by cold bright light, I stood, arrested, staring into the mirror. Self reflected with the clarity of truth. Impossible to erase the shock of grief etched into that old face. I recoiled cowardly, craving relief, retreating back to that empty bed. Soliciting soothing sleep, I slowly sank into dreams of sweet deception. |