An Epitaph On His Haunting

The phantom of his breath,
has hardly left;
He, who is living in my head;
and alive;
A memory that rises,
with practiced lines,
that I recite,
over and over again…
polished with time;
laced with cyanide,
some for me,
and some for him.
Erasing the empty,
isn’t a sin;
It isn’t suicide,
when its temporary.

© soulreserve 2015

(Inspired by my love for Coldplay and their song 42)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *