On the day a good man dies,

the memory of your worthless life

is brought into focus

as if the

eye test

you have been putting off

because you know how blind you

have become, confirms your worst fear

and the slow satisfying nod of the optician

as he tells you of the need for two sets

of new and expense ridden glasses, that

memory of the good man’s life is all

you can see…

and the memory burns shame and insignificance

into your eyes.

 

 

On the day a woman of intense persuasion dies,

a woman to whom revolutionised

the appearance of sex in your eyes,

a woman to whom an anecdote

then becomes a fleeting, passing

of well versed perfume, not hollow scooped

airbrushed knowledge,

then the memory of a meeting is remembered

and fought over in your mind, the awkward

crush you hold like a simmering

candle in a sea of torch light

is easily spotted and forever held

close…

and the memory burns brightly

valuable and with precious adoration.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015