You left when leaves were dirty rags,
when foliage shrunk to tattered shrouds
dangling on the barren boughs.
You left when days were dusk
and foggy fingers slipped around my throat.
You left when shadows grew
to darker shades of black.
I lit a candle but it reeked of ash —
a pyre bright that cannot burn this night,
rage rage against the dying of the light.
You left me silent in the claw of mourners,
to the taste of tepid beer in empty rooms.
I can’t go gently since you left.
Susie wants us to write a poem for for dia de Muerte at toads including inspiration from a dead poet. I have picked some wording from Dylan Thomas poem “Do not go gentle into that good night“. At the moment I have no personal loss, but this is what I imagine the feeling to be.
November 2, 2018