Ernest, you are the embodiment
of every melancholic song,
playing in the rooms of aching souls
with broken hearts.
You are the dark sky
that the sun has abandoned;
the wrinkled and weathered body
that youth forgot.
Despondently, you sit,
Day-after-day,
in that beige, aged lounge chair--
(which just like you, has seen better days)
rising from the dead,
only to scowl
about the ways in which your body has
failed you.
"Six months to live."
"Six months to live."
"Six months to live."
Six months to live
but you're already gone
and I
can’t
bring
you
back.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
Ernest, you are the embodiment
of every melancholic song,
playing in the rooms of aching souls
with broken hearts.
You are the dark sky
that the sun has abandoned;
the wrinkled and weathered body
that youth forgot.
Despondently, you sit,
Day-after-day,
in that beige, aged lounge chair--
(which just like you, has seen better days)
rising from the dead,
only to scowl
about the ways in which your body has
failed you.
"Six months to live."
"Six months to live."
"Six months to live."
Six months to live
but you're already gone
and I
can’t
bring
you
back.
