BEFORE
Church bells ring out over the city,
And I smile to myself.
“Maybe it’s a wedding,” I decide.
“Maybe they’re really in love.”
And maybe some day,
One will hold the other’s hand
As she lays in a hospital bed,
As death slowly creeps in.
And even the Reaper will bow his head
And curse the task at hand
When he sees the love his work will end,
As if six feet of earth could really do a thing
To destroy what they have.
And smiling through tears
They’ll make promises no one could keep
And mean every goddamn word.
I smile to myself
And walk on.
AFTER
The piano in the corner, left unplayed for so long,
Has forgotten how to sing its songs.
Baring faded photographs of children now grown,
It passes the days: anxious, and alone.
An old man in the kitchen puts the kettle on for tea,
And a single cup waits patiently
As the timid morning sunlight, lying flat upon the floor,
Leaves all the corners unexplored.
And to this day he can recall
The melodies that filled the halls
All those many years ago.
He remembers staring at the keys
As she told him that she had to leave.
There was nothing left for her to know.
So with nothing left to do today but wait, for tomorrow,
He takes solace in familiar sorrow,
With a head full of memories of things that never happened
And never will. They never will.
It hasn't been the best week.
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