Faith

Its a battle between not having and having faith

The white room,

Those goddamn fluorescent lights its dreadful gloom,

Waiting in that hospital lobby he felt like he himself was about to enter the tomb,

The news of his wife the only words he heard as the doctor spoke "stage 4 terminal",

No words left his mouth as he looked upon her in the hospital bed,

A haze his mind a blur an overwhelming choke for months he pled,

"God? father? S**t what do I even call you" but no where it led,

Now stage 4 and they are talking of "her arrangements",

Exiting  the hospital doors in a tone that can only be described as a mournful rage,

He enters his 1970 chevy c-10 and like him its beaten down with old age,

"F**K! F**K! F**K! F**K!" He screams to the top of his ancient lungs,

His knuckles turn blood red as his fist smashes into the steering wheel onlookers witness in the parking lot,

They think he is insane like with no context he might as well be speaking in tongues,

She was all he had left, 

After seeing his buddies pass away way back in Vietnam and the remaining from old age he blames god as he calls it "theft",

He starts up his truck and drives home in silence,

On the ride back he takes a detour to the what he remembers was an old gazebo where their love had the ceremony of their life long alliance,

He arrives....but the soulless look in his eyes at what he saw,

Its worse to him than the ones who get paid to view art and find a flaw,

"A f*****g mall" he mumbles under his breath,

Its a blank loveless corporate building just a brick wall,

After that he arrives home ignoring the hunger in his stomach,

The keys jingle out of his pocket the shaking he can barley get the key to enter due to Parkinson's but still he tries to remain somewhat stable he admired the monks,

He lays in bed he ant sleep toss, turn, toss, turn, eyes wide awake almost 40 years he had known her,

Not knowing if he could continue life if she were nevermore,

The sun comes up over the morning is early a knock,

Soft delicate to him it still comes as a shock,

He opens the front door its some blonde lady dressed in blue scrubs,

"YES?' he says "any update",

She looks at him in his wrinkled eyes "im sorry mr....." before she can even say his name he slams the door "Leave me alone",

She tries to help "We have resources for grieving spouses" "DONT WANT EM" he yells back as he locks the door,

Sitting in his rocking chair he cant even think or move,

He gets up he walks over to his wife's wooden crucifix that's on the wall smashing it to bits "YOU B*****D! You can take everything from me is that what you are trying to prove?",

Not thinking just off instinct he grabs his keys and in his pajamas he drives,

Going to he location where they had their first date decades and decades ago he remembered the first time their lips met. Its about 9:45 in the morning when he finally arrives,

Its a cliff overlooking the ocean,

He exists his truck and just stares out onto the scenery for only a few minutes but it felt like hours,

Walking back to his truck he reminisces his wife smelled those orchids she loved flowers,

He opens his tool box attached to the back of his truck pulling out his old heavy toolbelt that hasn't seen use in years and some duct tape,

Attaching the tool belt to himself and triple wrapping duct tape around his waist,

Climbing over the guard rail with great difficulty because of his brittle bones to the abyss is where he will soon be based,

The long decent but before he leaps he mumbles the only bible verse he knows "john 3:16",

Crashing into the waves,

As he gets closer to the underwater caves darker and darker he cannot see anything,

He scrambles his mind.... thinking as sinks lower to the depths,

if his wife had faith well then in his last moments he will try to as well,

"God please forgive me for what I've done my blasphemous ways I accept your gift" tears fall down his face even he's underwater

 

 

Author's Note

This is a pro Christian writing although some may read this and think its blasphemous.

Reviews

[JayG]

It appears that you've not dug as deeply as you might into the skills of metrical poetry that have been developed over the years. And that's getting in the way.

1. Stanzas, like the paragraph, are a device to help the reader better understand the flow.
2. Rhyming is meant as an accent, not the purpose of the poetry form. In this, "A haze his mind a blur an overwhelming choke for months he pled," you're all but rendering a line unintelligible in order to get a rhyme for, "bed."

You need to keep in mind that while you have the necessary context to provide meaning, the reader has only what your words suggest to THEM, based on THEIR life-experience—which is why we must edit from the seat of that reader, not our own.

Some suggestions:

First, for metrical poetry, look at the excerpt from Stephen Fry's, The Ode Less Traveled. His analysis of the flow of language is brilliant and eye-opening.

For poetry in general, Mary Oliver's, A Poetry Handbook is an absolute gem, and filled with little surprises and insights.

Without them, it's easy to be trapped by what David Sedaris was talking about with: “The returning student had recently come through a difficult divorce, and because her pain was significant, she wrongly insisted her writing was significant as well.”