A Whisper, A Moan


Here in my night of passing
I bequeathed stupidity the garden trees
In protest of their silence

‘They never spoke their language to me’

I announced, my voice suspended by mortality
The wind moaned and stupidity grinned
I looked around the room and announced
Lust was to be the heir of my paint box

‘Its colours were ill conceived, I never told anyone that’

The wind moaned and Lust looked suspicious
Happiness gained my shoes
in protest of them

‘...Never taking me to the grave of Alexander’

The wind moaned and Happiness merely sipped from her wine glass
And beautiful Cynicism gained my reputation

‘For what it is worth something... surely’

The wind moaned and there was much blood shed
My ghost I bequeathed to the wind
Who then threw it to the trees
In a mix of callous ingratitude and psychological punishment
And oh how those trees moaned and groaned in dismay
And I heard and understood every one of their words

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