deepundergroundpoetry.com
Gloomy Sunday
Today is Sunday.
My dear you are gone, have been for quite sometime.
This house holds too many memories of your life, that I cannot bear to sit-- lay here no more.
What time is it-- I do not know.
The cat wants to go out, I wonder if I can let him out today?
Can I sit up today?
Do I want to sit up?
To stand?
To talk?
To walk?
To breathe?
Not without you, my dear.
It had been too long since I have seen your face.
Heard your voice.
46 years of being together and like that you were gone-- The angels took you away.
The black coach of sorrow, a black parade has taken you away from me.
Looked you away in a casket.
What is the art of suicide, we know wonder?
It is simply giving up, my dear.
There are not pills.
No blades.
No rope.
Just an old man, his stubborness and the love he shared for his wife.
It's time for me to go.
Sorry to those who may miss me.
A daughter.
Two sons.
One grandson.
Four grand-daughters.
And one black and white cat named Charlie.
Charlie-- I think he wants to go out again.
Can I get up?
Can I let him out, one last time-- Before I go?
I can do this. . .
Sit up.
Breathing, feels like I'm breathing in water.
My lungs have filled up with fluid, over the past few days.
I stopped eating.
Stopped listening.
Stopped caring.
This house is so quiet.
I can almost hear the house breathing, it knows that I am leaving.
When I go. . .
There will be sorrow in their eyes.
Candles and prayers.
Sad I know.
But I do not want them to cry for me.
For I am glad to go.
To be with you again my dear.
Where's the cat?
My heart is slowing.
My lungs are aching.
Life. . .
Flashing. . .
Before. . .
My. . .
Eyes. .
And they close.
Death is no dream.
For in death I shall see you again.
And that is what I want.
I died-- when you died.
I have been a shell of the man I was.
Life is so precious, but some must let it die.
My life has been shut away from me, inside the case that your body has been stored.
Along with my soul.
Hollow like my soul.
Good-bye my family.
We will meet again someday.
Or maybe I am still here for you, on those very darkened days.
This is my second death, for I died when she died-- My wife.
46 years of marriage, and I loved every hour spent.
I have closed my eyes on this day.
Judgement can be passed.
By I do not care.
This house is nothing without life.
And it has been dead, so let it die.
Today is sunday.
Gloomy Sunday
Dedicated to my Grandfather, R.I.P. Robert J. Mathieu.
My dear you are gone, have been for quite sometime.
This house holds too many memories of your life, that I cannot bear to sit-- lay here no more.
What time is it-- I do not know.
The cat wants to go out, I wonder if I can let him out today?
Can I sit up today?
Do I want to sit up?
To stand?
To talk?
To walk?
To breathe?
Not without you, my dear.
It had been too long since I have seen your face.
Heard your voice.
46 years of being together and like that you were gone-- The angels took you away.
The black coach of sorrow, a black parade has taken you away from me.
Looked you away in a casket.
What is the art of suicide, we know wonder?
It is simply giving up, my dear.
There are not pills.
No blades.
No rope.
Just an old man, his stubborness and the love he shared for his wife.
It's time for me to go.
Sorry to those who may miss me.
A daughter.
Two sons.
One grandson.
Four grand-daughters.
And one black and white cat named Charlie.
Charlie-- I think he wants to go out again.
Can I get up?
Can I let him out, one last time-- Before I go?
I can do this. . .
Sit up.
Breathing, feels like I'm breathing in water.
My lungs have filled up with fluid, over the past few days.
I stopped eating.
Stopped listening.
Stopped caring.
This house is so quiet.
I can almost hear the house breathing, it knows that I am leaving.
When I go. . .
There will be sorrow in their eyes.
Candles and prayers.
Sad I know.
But I do not want them to cry for me.
For I am glad to go.
To be with you again my dear.
Where's the cat?
My heart is slowing.
My lungs are aching.
Life. . .
Flashing. . .
Before. . .
My. . .
Eyes. .
And they close.
Death is no dream.
For in death I shall see you again.
And that is what I want.
I died-- when you died.
I have been a shell of the man I was.
Life is so precious, but some must let it die.
My life has been shut away from me, inside the case that your body has been stored.
Along with my soul.
Hollow like my soul.
Good-bye my family.
We will meet again someday.
Or maybe I am still here for you, on those very darkened days.
This is my second death, for I died when she died-- My wife.
46 years of marriage, and I loved every hour spent.
I have closed my eyes on this day.
Judgement can be passed.
By I do not care.
This house is nothing without life.
And it has been dead, so let it die.
Today is sunday.
Gloomy Sunday
Dedicated to my Grandfather, R.I.P. Robert J. Mathieu.
Published 3rd May 2012
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3rd May 2012 4:20am
I am sorry for your loss. You wrote a beautiful piece. So much pain is felt in your words. I want to cry for your grandfather's pain. I pray for the late, i pray for him to be with the love of his life.
Great write:)
Great write:)
17th May 2012 4:32am
This is amazing this has a way of putting me in the posision of the person dieing. It captured my amagination as i read this on how much thought you put into whats going through his mind its amazing. The pure emotion in this poem made me think of the ones I have lost. You are an good poet I applaud you and your mind.
