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SisterToTheWolves — Haunted
Published: 2012-02-23 04:23:26 +0000 UTC; Views: 52; Favourites: 0; Downloads: 2
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Description
I can't help it.I'm haunted.
Every time I turn around,
they're there.
Everywhere I look.
Pained.
I can't get them
out of my head.
Can't chase them
from my vision.
Saw a picture today,
his sister.
A spectre, him,
he stood beside her.
An image in my mind
of what could have been.
What would have been.
What should have been.
They won't leave,
but do I want them to?
If I look too carefully,
they appear in my sight.
If I search too hard,
think back too far,
I'll remember them,
in specific details.
The tone of her voice,
crying, as she backed away,
unable to enter
the room where his coffin lay.
The colour of the coffins,
the hockey-pucks stacked.
Her mother's embrace,
her father's voice
"She thought the world of you."
Specific details,
two weeks remembered in two moment's time.
The accusation in their voices,
the accusation in his voice,
"Why won't you say good-bye?"
Why?
Why?
I'll tell you why.
Specifically why.
I couldn't bear it,
to see him in a coffin.
The boy so full of life,
dead, in a coffin, about to be burned.
Gone forever.
We can't even visit him.
I'll tell you why,
specifically why.
After her funeral,
I couldn't bear another.
I couldn't watch another friend
enter Earth's embrace.
Covered in roses,
sent on with a kiss.
Imaginary flames,
surrounding those submerged in water.
Now, I'm haunted.
Haunted by images that aren't there.
Maybe they are.
Maybe.
Maybe,
I'm supposed to see them.
Others can't,
others won't.
Others don't see the dust
that forms, sometimes.
Dust that shows for a second,
someone walking.
Dust that is pulled
from the very same road that claimed them.
I can't escape them.
Can't stop seeing.
I can't stop thinking,
what was it like?
Why did it happen?
To what end?
I can't stop questioning.
I can't stop hurting.
It's true, I'm getting stronger,
I can hold back the tears for longer, now.
But then I see them,
and I break.
And songs written when I was young
suddenly make sense.
Too much sense
for a mind much too young.
Too much death
for a soul too soon.
So much pain
for a child.
They ask why
I talk to the air.
It's because they're still here,
still listening to me ramble,
They're still watching,
still waiting.
I wonder if they're trapped,
but no, it's a choice.
Even though I felt someone leave,
the others are still here.
The proof is in the pictures,
the spectral images that appear.
The dust on the corners,
the mirage down the street.
The "what if's"
the "why now's"
The proof is in our minds,
if we will open our eye and see.
And it amazes me,
that for four so full of life,
The only evidence they were ever here?
Their gravestones.
