Milestones are monuments; monuments are much heralded celebrations of an events annoying repetition
Eschewed; not all milestones represent celebration
When does joyous marking of an events continued endurance turn as the milk soured, a milestone in the direction of macabre declaration of unnatural survival when themed darkly a life may seem more rejectingly lost than cheerfully found
The brightened hue of the room you’ve visited so many a time, reflecting some hideously ridiculous grin in the pearly white smiles of well-wishers, now tainted as the faded white and peeling paint, the recycled tableware lightly stained a teal shade of bitter
Pearly white fades to eerie yellow, eyes so bright become sunken hollows of well-wishing mourners, as daggers eagerly converge in the hands of those growing bitter with each passing year they feel the unwanted obligation to have to paint on acrimonious smiles and appear
The next monument marred with a vengeful state of spiteful fervour, a quietly screaming insult at what forces have become the hated enemy that burns with every misbegotten sting of disappointment to have proceeded this day, heavy with all those begrudgingly remembered years previous
Is it the hope that the next year reaps all the returns conspicuously lacking in past endeavours?
Is it the twisted smile of knowing life has been denied a stone marker, to fell you six foot under?!
Each year the pain holds less worth, whilst the desire to challenge that hated enemy corrupts till there is no more than a crippled figure, but still the mourners gather is sorrowful manner to mark the monument an evidential scratch of morbid survival
The pall bearers servicing in respectful fashion the remnants of that ever stronger liquor as to soften harsh tones in the hatful fervour of conversational graves with empty word exchanges, when ghostly visitations mark supreme numbers against those with a fated breathe left to say the stinging words ‘Happy’ or ‘Merry’ it is truly time to accept the coldly logical invitation in that bony of hand of none other than the reaper
But upon the apex of depressive weather to burn and scold my sense of patience and fading redeeming values this summer I will once again call the undertakers to lay a table, the therapists as psychological preachers to summon ghosts of past failures so to in fatalistic merriment mark that stone another year older in coldly loathing anger
One twistingly humourless/humour ridden joke to play the day a darker shade of corrupted logic, when words are spoken about my time apparent in this god forsaken existence, it’s rude to speak ill of the dearly departed!