“Who are you, who shares the same name as me?”
A pale figure says, surrounded by his family,
the room is filled with tears, and with anger,
as what was so well known, becomes ever stranger.
I ask the wannabe corpse, “do you still love me?”
Though, with a vacant look, he shrugs nonchalantly,
making in me, a reason, to become the perfect killer,
as with his death, a mutual break; will be delivered.
For he refuses to attend, he just enjoys the fog,
remaining the living ghost, writing his early epilogue,
where the ink comes from distilleries, that he has drank,
but in us, his kin, we try to think, of what we can thank.
However, the good we hold on to, the despair is too much,
so, gratitude’s replaced with disdain; as we lose touch,
“is it too late for him to change?” I sobbingly ask,
as it may take his life; thus, it may be his final task.
Dear Mother and Sister, I need you, so I can confide,
if not, I will take the slab in his place, let me die,
for twelve years of hurt, that’s been co-authored by him,
has made my thoughts rotten, and my outlook, so very grim.
Their response is kind, for they remind me to be cool,
as, I, and we, are him, thus, I should not be so cruel,
our relationship now, is like tying the Gordian knot,
hence like Alexander, we will try to slice through the lot.
We shall wade through this swamp of sadness, to reclaim,
the one who is lost, a source of our prolonged pain,
in all our senses, we can feel his earthly presence,
though we do concentrate, for the dissonance in his essence.
Half of his groans and moans, are not in his control,
by way of ward holidays, where whitecoats were on patrol,
but, time and time again, his nature intervenes,
not heeding the advice, that will keep his health so clean.
Wishing that his slurring, can be replaced with clarity,
our bones creak, and our energy burns, in natural charity,
we extend our hands to a phantom, that we still recognise,
he has still got a lot to live for, before his demise.
So, we clamber up our mountains, that have been made,
in harmonious tones of light, to rid away the shade,
in time, we all hope, to write a most happy diary log,
but for the moment, we are staring, at his ghost in the fog.