In Memorial Poem by pedro moshood

She would look quite often at him
Like Narcissus that glared into
The pool to find his reflection,
Yet she could not see in his eyes
The perfect image of herself.

Meanwhile, he was like pole
In the North, while she was merely
An echo in the South, even though she
Desired to fix the nuptial axis
While expecting nothing in return.

He would come home, dead drunk
And dirty like a pig in a sty and beat
The fairy queen to pulp and pee
Upon her, yet she would stay for love,
Hoping he would change his ways one day.

"He wasn't bad, " she would vouch for him always.
"And almost every marriage is a tunnel cluttered with mess,
Even though we hide it like occult oath
In our heart.You can't know what is there
Until you are there to see for yourself". So she said to me

Seven years after, cold-blooded murder
Was what I could think of at the funeral,
As the priest tolled the bell, while we walked
Round the biers, observing the final rite.
I looked at the three kids, orphaned at tender age
As "mama's funeral meat now furnished the marriage table.