Image: Tony Murphy -Boyle’s Gaelic Chieftain
Tied at the kitchen sink,
screams captured, by the ceiling –
photos in the sitting room tell a different story.
all that was left was a girl in a box,
buried alive, if only she’d been oxygenated.
Once a sweet peach,
everyone peered in, murmuring:
‘what happened to her?’
Wails of what they might say –
if only there was one more day,
the sun might rise – she might see it differently,
But the horrific truth:
he would not find happiness,
not until he had her in a box.
Like a ghost at my bed three a.m.
haunts the spot my heart used to be.
In a room that echoes vacant night time
chats, I think of eternity in purgatory.
Locked in a rhymeless room with no view,
no paintings, no sheets, no floor, no air –
only a roof and four walls, screaming perpetually –
no one can hear
I suffer through a time without an end.
In the early hours of night you walked in my room,
rope in hand, ‘ready’, you said, ‘gonna finish the job
thirteen years living as though you are dead’ he said.
Everything I never felt, all at once, an orgasm of pain
every nerve exploded in a micro vision of the pain
you caused, the years you stole, the heart you stopped.
Problems faded away at your death bed,
all I could remember was, for better or worse,
you joked, I’m here for the better,
I laughed, not knowing worse would be a frequenter.
I’m tired now, but promises from the start
remind us both – till death do we part,
suspicions aside, there is no denying
longevity is fated with an end in everything
if there has been no ending, it is in fact,