Remembrance Sunday

And I’m dripping with remorse

Feeling cold, hard hands run over

fibre, gristle and stone.

The kids in front of me

Have no idea who we’re remembering

They are dripping with fear,

Immersed by hatred, society has set them free

It frankly doesn’t care

and where do they find themselves?

Back in prison, on top of a hill.

I don’t know why I can’t contain.

The older I grow and with every success

I plunge myself deeper, into pity and regret,

rejecting all around me.

So pale and steeped in fear

Drowning myself in nonchalance

Half-alive in devil may care.

I worry now because I am struggling for an excuse.

Further away from myself than I have been

in quite some time.

Perhaps a little minor tragedy helps

An excuse to drip, drip, drip.

When everything’s fine I just feel myself slip

Further and further away,

You’re shouting at me to stay, but I don’t know how.

Spiralling out of control

In a circus of whiskey and moans

So flippant with these oaths we made and

Violently critical of the mistakes you make.

So my hope has faded

Now the kids don’t know

What to remember

Or even how to remember.

Perhaps it’s all the same.

Should I host my own remembrance day?

For the family that went away

No that doesn’t sound right.

There is still a small glow, flashing far away,

Where I sit and wallow every day,

Dripping and bleeding

My past consistently exceeding

My hope for my future,

In every single way.

My loved ones can’t talk to me

about what you have done, Celean.

The way you live your life, quite obviously

Because I’m the obvious one,

To the dense and obscene.

I was always easily accused.

I got the convictions and scars to prove

that I was really down there.

But my borrellish style and intense green eyes

Got me through.

Not to mention, my hatred for you.

They can’t understand why you left me here.

I am amazed at your sickening indifference.

And while I wither today, dreaming of a life gone astray

I wish for a wind of change.

That can blow through my putrid piety

My longing for a life that was fine

There were three of us, who could have made things right

You never wanted to put up a fight.

But you left all the rest of us not knowing

Your vile plans, your will to usurp.

Lost were the good deeds before you

and Mum’s desire for a love that could work.

So I will remember this Sunday

The ones who died for my country,

The ones who were denied the ability to fulfil

Their dreams, their love, their ambitions,

Just like me.