13/07/2010

Kaput

Embracing a stranger’s cold tombstone.
Screaming your sorrows at its engraved face.
Crushing the deadly nightshade’s at its base.
With reproachful tenderness.
You apologise sincerely.
Tracing the engraved name with scarred fingers.

You could care less if this corpse.
Is.
Was.
Or could have been anybody.
A somebody.
6ft under the world deems them nonexistent.

You understand. You have always understood. Needs can be compromised.