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This hall of tiles
A poem about the death of young people.
Article by : SpunOut.ie
I was influenced for this piece by the amount of young suicides that have occurred recently in my area, and many deaths of young people in only a few months. I began wondering if perhaps these are similar to the famous Death Sentenced in American states or assisted suicide. These 'criminals' are killed to make the world a better place, they are a danger to themselves and others around them, and so they are killed. I wrote it from the point of the person dying, be it voluntarily or involuntarily.
Faked promises and broken smiles,
Screaming monsters in my bed,
Their commands processing overhead.
I set myself to my own trials,
and swore to always apprehend,
the life I chose here I will spend.
And the sandman he will set the dials,
and send me down the road of dusty death,
and to the maker I have never met.
Surrounded in this hall of tiles,
the bad we know we must be bled,
from a society of broken breath.
And rules and laws and passing Heads,
that govern us, even the dead,
who lie once peaceful but now stir,
when hear of our world encased in myrrh.
Yet we are told even in death,
how this must be done to save the rest,
the sharpened needle takes our breath,
and as we go they remind us how we sent
Ourselves to this everlasting space,
of dust and fire and broken grace,
we ourselves we know our place,
unwanted ants in this rat race,
we have nothing left but our disgrace,
which time can never help erase,
and in the midst I see her face,
a wise choice for my replace,
this life I’ve chosen, this airless case,
I can do no wrong but embrace,
this small unlawful wooden case.
By: Róisín Dunk
Screaming monsters in my bed,
Their commands processing overhead.
I set myself to my own trials,
and swore to always apprehend,
the life I chose here I will spend.
And the sandman he will set the dials,
and send me down the road of dusty death,
and to the maker I have never met.
Surrounded in this hall of tiles,
the bad we know we must be bled,
from a society of broken breath.
And rules and laws and passing Heads,
that govern us, even the dead,
who lie once peaceful but now stir,
when hear of our world encased in myrrh.
Yet we are told even in death,
how this must be done to save the rest,
the sharpened needle takes our breath,
and as we go they remind us how we sent
Ourselves to this everlasting space,
of dust and fire and broken grace,
we ourselves we know our place,
unwanted ants in this rat race,
we have nothing left but our disgrace,
which time can never help erase,
and in the midst I see her face,
a wise choice for my replace,
this life I’ve chosen, this airless case,
I can do no wrong but embrace,
this small unlawful wooden case.
By: Róisín Dunk
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