Category: Poetry
Theme: Untold grief, bereavement
Synopsis: Just as Oppenheimer became the Death; I had become him. But Oppenheimer had regrets. I had none. Only sorrows.
The cries were a heavy December breeze
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
As if lurching me out of the jagged wicket
Every gust thundered the words,
“You had no right to grieve!”
But their condemnation, albeit unspoken
Were painted on their scowls
They had violent ropes –
Tethering me into my seat
Precluding my chance to have one last glance
(I didn’t kill the lord!)
All the glowering only left me cold
For I knew I was the only one who saw through him
In their lens, he was just a young man
Mutinous and with convivial air
Who sought pleasure to and fro
Yet all these great acts of ludicrous meanor
Were nothing but a mere façade to hide his melancholy
That only my poems could ever appease
And so he bathed in them, dwelled in them
“I want to be like the leaves falling to earth.”
(The lord should never have grown affinity towards the devil)
Whenever he whipped his sword and rode his cardboard horse
– He was the mightiest hero of his apostles
From the flickering gleams
Plastered on the genial faces of naïveté,
His grand display of puerile remarks was their Eucharist
Whenever he hurled rotten eggs on our porches
And drove his bike around the suburbs,
All for the thrill of getting caught,
A burst of laughter ignited from his apostles
A burst of ire evoked from the others
(Alas, the great lord had grown tired of his creations)
His indifference, manic, and all his caprices
I behold their gradual apogee on nail marks on his thighs
On the gushing of blood from his wrists
On his gait finally tumbling down
Like a leaf falling from a tree, succumbing to earth
On his bedside was the journal
Full of poems I had scribbled
About sunlight glowing dimmer
And leaves abandoning their home
To make way for something glorious; the advent of rebirth
(I had angered his apostles)
Surmises arose
My words were evinced to abet his deteriorating mind
I accompanied him there, to the catafalque
Where he lay no longer beset with ebullience
But only despondency colder than December breeze
Posted By: Julianne Rose M. Laureano
Date Published: April 12, 2022
Time Published: 2:37 pm
Painting: Into the Maelstrom IV by Michael Ryan
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