i live about forty miles from London in a place called Basingstoke, Hampshire. I have published some seven collections of poetry and have about a thousand poems floating around the web. But more important to me is if someone I don't know were to send me an email telling me they were moved by my work.
The Dead Room
I walked in and saw her —
nothing left of her.
The smell almost turned my stomach.
I had to hold back the tears.
"Do you remember who I am?"
"You are David," she kept saying.
"No I am not him."
If there was one person in the world I would never be it was him.
"Take me home with you David." she pleaded.
But she knew I would not.
"You said you hated me," she said.
I didn't say the words but she could see it in my eyes.
And I did hate her.
I hated her for my conscience bringing me here.
I hated her because of the way the nurses looked at me for not coming sooner.
I hated her because for the whole of my life I had never done anything for her.
I hated her because she made me feel bad about who I was.
I hated her because she was my mother.
I did not stay long and before I left
I bent down close to her and said,
"See you on the other side."
©2014 Marc Carver