A Life To Burn

Sitting, compiling events of his life,
the good, the bad,
the uncomfortable, the cruel.
It all pours out onto the page.

Ink covering parchment,
blood seeping from his eyes.
He struggles to see,
yet still forms the words.

Smiling at images in his mind.
Cinema trips, games with friends,
random presents and trips out
with Mum and Dad.

He finished his tea a while back,
Yet a warmth still fills him.

Then he thinks of how most friends turned,
leaving just his small circle.
A wince, but then recollection of
that small circle brings a half-smile.

How they became everything.

Playing sports,
going to clubs,
worrying through their teenage years,
laughing about it afterwards.

Thinking chronologically,
he almost doubles-over,
the pen recalling the shocking shudder
of the accident that took his parents.

He should have been with them,
went to a football match instead.
He wipes a tear, then chuckles,
a headline comes to him,

‘FOOTBALL SAVED MY LIFE’

Tabloid-esque maybe,
but maybe that’s a route
he should have considered more seriously.
His pen pauses as he ponders.

He thinks of Eleanor,
first seeing her at school,
being besotted into college.
Never gaining the courage to ask her out.

He writes that part leaning heavier
as he writes.
The words almost forcibly scratched,
he feels a dull ache within himself.

Pen skips over page, as
the knife flays flesh
and cuts off small pieces of his heart
to share with the void he sees

as he blinks deeply.

He brightens again.
The life he had with Kerry was a fine one
two wonderful children.
He could ask for no more.

Helping them become the adults they are,
his greatest achievement.
His pride swells, and he almost jumps from the chair,
though his hips prevent it.

Going back over these parts,
the pen has a life of its own.
So much fun.
Holidays, birthdays, Christmases.

Years of joy, that he wouldn’t wish to swap
for anything.
He continues compiling.
Relentlessly writing.

Kerry.
Truth be told, even when they got married
He wasn’t sure he loved her.
The knife pricked slowly under his ribs.

He thinks that he came to though.
They laughed easily enough,
hardly argued. Just small things.
Enjoyed each other’s company.

A life of relative contentment,
until she wasn’t there anymore.
The cancer emaciated and ravaged her,
took her so quickly.

He thought they had more time.
It always takes longer
in those terrible dramas
she insisted on watching.

He told her then that he loved her.

He meant it too.

His heart turns black,
made now of charcoal,
he feels it crumble a little,
as he inhales, deeply.

Now he sits writing.
Thinking of everyone past and present.
A son in The States,
Daughter in New Zealand.

He alone, in a converted shed,
on an island miles away
from the both of them.
Loneliness worn like a fresh new coat.

He calls his best friend.

The chat makes him feel 20 again.

He reads the words written
over many hours
and places them in a bin,
before reaching into his pocket.

Finds his lighter,
summons a flame, the pages take quickly.
Flames flicker.
He kicks the bin. It topples over.

Flames consume the little shed.
He stands, watches against the door.
Closes his eyes.
Waits.

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