Living in a Mausoleum
/Written about my father many years after the death of my mother
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I get up and she's there
I say good morning, have a cry
She watches me brush my slowly decaying teeth
As I get myself dressed she hears me groan and creek
Complaining about the pain
Sighing down the stairs, she makes sure I don't make myself trip.
Her presence and my fear stop me falling.
Chris Evans' cheerful tones remind me of Wogans passed.
A friendly voice waking me up replaced by an alien youth.
I complain to her about him.
But, for the 2,565th time she says nothing.
Silently tolerating me.
I know she disapproves of me like this
But I don't care
She can't leave
She had no choice
She had no right
She had no way
So I stay
My life shrinking
Getting darker as my eye sight slowly degenerates
So she remains
With a look of disdain and pity
But she should have thought about that before she died
The friends and family don't ring so much
Don't visit so much
I pretend to not remember these things
But in my heart I know
But if I go then she goes
And if she goes I'll have nothing left
Just a hole in my heart
Shaped like the plain wooden coffin
Buried in the ground
with a space next to it that I'm too scared to get into
My mausoleum
My museum
My world
By Simon Zec
From: United Kingdom
Instagram: simonzecpoet
Twitter: simonzec23