Were you scared your crop had failed,?
When i left open my door.
Did you have to leave so quickly?
I had nothing more to offer to you.
I failed to present to you my gift when you left.
My attempts were only left empty when your cart didnt return that night,
I had a plan to adorn your shoulders with lavender and gold,
To present a feast I worked years to afford.
You left me a note with the name of a town, written hastely on the back of a reciept.
Its all but faded today, but back then the paper still smelled of your perfume.
I had a small speech, written down in the back of my brain.
Devised from years of old poems and scrap book dreams.
My stomoch hurt,
Patiently waiting day by day with my eyes fixed on the crest of the old dirt road.
Nothing kicked the dust like it used to.
I waited for what seemed like 10 years.
My feast untouched, it became home for vermiculite and small insects.
My offerings still sat nearby incase she returned.
The speech has slowly left my cerebral cortex and all i can remember is the name of a town.
My muscles heavy with years of anxiety and ache with every small vibration.
What would she think of me now?
My clothes are all but strips of cloth held together with dust and salt,
From the small amount of pain I allowed to leave my quiet desperation.
Through silent crying and a moments of whispering your name.
I took me two years to reach you,
I gave up everything I had to own to get here.
Where are you?
This old hamlet looks dead.
I look through windows and peer over hedges.
I go over the name of the town in my head,
hoping I had made some mistake and I was in the wrong place.
Have you gone?
I find a small graveyard but cant find your name.
I slump behind a cold stone.
Thumping my fists into the ground with mercyless anger.
Something falls heavy to the ground.
An old dictionary, forgotten and abused.
Peering out a small scrap of paper, a torn recipt.
The smell of perfume snaps my synapses and shocks my body.
A small peice of my heart breaks.
My breathing stops and arrests my senses.
just enough to allow the cold to take the last of my warmth.
My last wish was for your harvest to bloom,
For your love to be shared by someone worthy.
With my final breath,
I hold onto a memory of when my door was still closed.
Of a time when you believed I could love you
When you still smiled at me and I knew I didnt have to pretend.
That i was a brave man.
But you loved me all the same.
Edward Ramsden
34.2.10
The great thing about long poems is that not many people can be bothered to read the whole thing.
If they do, they more often than not disregard meaning and context.
Rendering the poem, in their eyes, just a nice poem about something sad.
This is a fantastic way of expressing myself without people who dont give a shit noticing.
This poem is really important to me
