This write evoked a sense of coming to grips of an end of a chapter or perhaps feeling a change in oneself, perhaps, aging or maturing. Nevertheless, it seems that the reflection has some mortality and fears that we all face sooner or late. I enjoy dark poems and anything that potrends the human condition. I am an avid fan of Fyodor Dostoevsky, and was especially inspired by his Notes from the Underground because of the nuances he was able to set forth in that incredible piece. Although, this particular poem reminds me of a poem by an author named Leo Connellan and I would like to share it with you because I read it at the age of 17 and it gripped me because I was fascinated with the gloom and rather depressive nature of that poem, but could not yet relate, but I sure felt compassion and pity for him. Please don't think that I am saying that I am pitying you for this poem of yours, I do always feel compassion for anything with a dark nature, I rather commend you that your poem reminded me of a few writers I consider to be great.
So, I hope that you don't mind me adding Leo Connellan's poem "Tell Her That I Fell" because I would just like to share it with you. I also wanted to mention that I read the poem later in life and I was still entertained by it after all those years.
Tell Her That I Fell
Woke me retching and alone.
Within doom booze
her arms around me again
in wished-for honeymoon time
that never happened.
Wait now to become ashes
and am so sorry.
Stagger now, shaking for what I'm running on.
But it takes a few to get started these days,
face gouged by razor unable fingers hold
and each step away from where a bar is near
makes me feel certain I'm going to drop dead.
Each morning now is terror.
The bathroom mirror reflects
earthworms have not a long wait
to pick me clean.
My toothpaste mouthwash
is a breakfast of liquor,
so is all day and every complete night.
Took her once in the snow
the seacoast near, vivid
like if bright red blood was blue.
Afterward when she stood up
the bare spot we melted
was like two halves of a pear.
I know she is in a Fishing Village now
with many babies.
The boats go out each morning before sunup
breaks through salt fog and come in long after dark,
just to make ends meet.
Maybe he is good to her
in his clumsy understanding
I hope so, but never sure in his mind.
Furiously suspicious at any man's glance at her
eternally looking for whoever I am
directly into the face of each tourist who comes
How it frustrates him, unable
to find and strangle me
who is always the wedge between his best effort,
and he is so strong, sea life hardened.
Wake me these days retching then, all right
just tell her that I fell.
My happiness time was with her,
been any kind of a man
I would have carried her like
a knapsack away and felt
her feet slapping my thighs.
Come on, death, I fear
to wobble the few steps to you.
-- Leo Connellan