grave dust

There’s grave dust in his aftershave  
a serpent around his neck  
tattooed as a memory to the life he left behind  
 
She still whispers long lost lullabies  
somewhere deep within  
always there to remind him  
of the things he could have been  
 
Breathing is just a tradition  
he could never quite let go of  
hope, a ball and chain he wears like a plague upon his soul  
 
Memories scatter like cockroaches  
beneath a kitchen midnight feast light  
and all that lingers is the stale taste of ash upon tongue  
 
A green copper line around his finger  
beneath a faded heart tattoo  
that once spoke of love and the promises of forever  
the gold ring long pawned for vices    
he cradled to him like the light  
 
A landscape of mould and mildew surround him  
on walls of forgotten white  
the rank smell of dishes long unwashed  
seeping through the dust motes  
that skip though the light of today’s dawning sun  
 
The mirror’s cracked and faded  
covered with a stricken cloth  
the bathroom sink filled with foam and blood from shaving blind  
in the whiskey afterbirth of another night spent unslept  
 
And through it all she still whispers  
long lost lullabies  
somewhere deep within  
always there to remind him  
of this things he could have been  
 
A lonely tune whistles through a cracked and dusty window  
that no closed curtain can silence  
telling him he could have had it all  
a mirror to her voice, the gentle song of a distant life  
and a home filled with warmth  
 
Now all that’s left is the whiskey sliding down his throat  
a hot chill in an empty bed  
where he’ll again sleep alone  
as she slumbers in the shallow grave beneath  
 
© Indie Adams 2013