Stories told on Poems 1.0 - After This
This is dedicated to my dear friend, Iman's father. He passed away on the 17th of July, 2011, at 2.00 a.m. at age 67. He was a great man who I was incredibly blessed to call someone I knew. He fought the school board for us netball players and always knew that something academic couldn't always satisfy us teenagers. He was a sweet guy with a soft spot for his only daughter and incredibly patient. Thanks for everything, Uncle! See you soon!
After This
After this,
we’ll pick up the hats and the broken pieces of glass,
Snatch up the final remnants of memory,
strewn about the floor in a mess,
after the celebration.
After this, we’ll place them in the sink,
tell ourselves we’ll get to it
later,
after,
never,
Then we’ll sit about the round table and look at each other,
more sorrow than celebration in our eyes.
After this,
one of us will say something and then none of us will say anything,
Because to say something would be the same as making this all real,
making the fact that a little chunk,
or maybe a large iceberg
or maybe even half
or maybe not a single piece,
Of our world,
your world,
her world,
their world,
has broken off and crumbled into the void.
After this,
we’ll all rise from our chairs and say goodbye,
To the each other and to the shadows and the ghosts haunting the halls of the house,
But only each other will leave us.
After this, the music stops,
the last drop falls from your lips as you sing your death song and
after this, there’s no more memory,
The world keeps moving,
the stars keep shining as if they hadn’t been ripped from the skies once before
and the sun rises with the dawn.
As if nothing has changed
and our worlds haven’t collapsed for now.
After this, we’ll stand up and leave this place,
leave this place of sadness and this place of past joys,
After this, we’ll burn bridges so our hearts won’t cross
and fall into the hole someone punched into the middle of it the moment you breathed your last.
After this,
we’ll put down our guitars,
tuck away our piano keys
and pick up our lives,
Put them back on and go on with more after this.
Cheers!
After This
After this,
we’ll pick up the hats and the broken pieces of glass,
Snatch up the final remnants of memory,
strewn about the floor in a mess,
after the celebration.
After this, we’ll place them in the sink,
tell ourselves we’ll get to it
later,
after,
never,
Then we’ll sit about the round table and look at each other,
more sorrow than celebration in our eyes.
After this,
one of us will say something and then none of us will say anything,
Because to say something would be the same as making this all real,
making the fact that a little chunk,
or maybe a large iceberg
or maybe even half
or maybe not a single piece,
Of our world,
your world,
her world,
their world,
has broken off and crumbled into the void.
After this,
we’ll all rise from our chairs and say goodbye,
To the each other and to the shadows and the ghosts haunting the halls of the house,
But only each other will leave us.
After this, the music stops,
the last drop falls from your lips as you sing your death song and
after this, there’s no more memory,
The world keeps moving,
the stars keep shining as if they hadn’t been ripped from the skies once before
and the sun rises with the dawn.
As if nothing has changed
and our worlds haven’t collapsed for now.
After this, we’ll stand up and leave this place,
leave this place of sadness and this place of past joys,
After this, we’ll burn bridges so our hearts won’t cross
and fall into the hole someone punched into the middle of it the moment you breathed your last.
After this,
we’ll put down our guitars,
tuck away our piano keys
and pick up our lives,
Put them back on and go on with more after this.
Cheers!