The last time I visited
The old home stead
It reeked of death
And poverty
Poverty makes death so
Unpleasant
The smells the pain
The suffering evident
Etched in the faces
Of the old ones
Poverty slowly surely
Draining away dignity
And leaving only
A stinking fetid mess
I am ashamed
Of my revulsion
There is no sunshine here
No memories of love
Of warmth or laughter
Only the reminders
Of abuse
And abandonment
Of cruelty and hate
Of anger and rage
Those are the things
Remembered
Rain, thunder and lighting
Monsoon season
The jungle is lush
Frightening
Oppressive
I shrink back
And away
From the only family
I ever knew
The tears I shed
Are not for them
They are for me
I cry for the child
I once was
The woman
I could have been
What can never be
Hot tears burning
Paths down the sides
Of my face
Old before age comes
Before the grim reaper
Who will bury me
When I die
Who will lay flowers
By my graveside
Who will mourn
My passage
Who will ask
Which way
I went and
Where I came from
If I cast away
The ties that
Bound me to earth
Kith and kin
How deep and strong
Is blood really
That without rue
The bonds unravel
Never to be found
Again in eternity
Does my action
Become inaction
Or the death
Of dreams
And hopes
And the joys
That could have been
I die slowly
I follow the dead
Shall we meet again
In paradise or hell
They did not know
Paradise here and now
Created a hell
For me and us and them
The ancient ones
They said
The hereafter
Is like the present
A depressing thought
Death loses appeal
Not respite
But affliction
Eternal and unending
I walk away
Sad and mourn
An imminent passage
© Lesley Gene Agams
November 7, 2005
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