The Honesty of the Drunk and Dead

I had penned a story, whose beauty held me

Rapt, and spilt ink upon dressed wounds

Fitting I, whose blood already blackened

Would endeavor to wash my guilty hands

In filth spoilt only by the relatively clean

And I dressed my dear protagonist

In a funeral veil, lest my tar hands stain

Her wedding dress

I had rent the words, whose accusations swelled

Into oceans, and filled my sweet reader's eyes

With tears, these years have taken a heavy toll

Since the day our heroine laid her lover low

And I, whose madness could only be conveyed

Through this array of plot device and passion

Wore her favorite jacket of mine on the day I died, one that I

Had ever hated

But there, dear audience, is not where this story ends

For a life long coursing, enduring the trifles of small men

Is not content to pass so placid, as the preacher dared pretend

No, I had cursed the heavens, I had burned with such passion

And every word I heard him utter, of peace and good will

Without stutter, I could not let this lie live on unchecked

So summoned I some lingering ounce of bile

To dribble down my chin, and spoil the words before they spurred me

Back to life again

Let not the preacher fool you, I was not a saint

I was the worst of all of you, and you the worst of me

No man dies with clean hands, who can say he ever lived

So let me lie at peace then, amidst the stench of my decay

Do not dare to cry, or pretend your hatred away

For if this funeral shall be mine, let honesty take the stage

All remembered goodwill is a lie, give no favor to the dead

For I was a man quite ill, with the darkest of intent.