Marco Di Caprio

Confusion will be my Epitaph

(King Crimson, Epitaph, 1969

Seated within my grandfather’s worn chair,
In darkness thick that filled his silent room,
I felt the urge to chant out broken prayers,
As though mere sound could lift this heavy gloom.

Another sip of whisky dulls the mind.
No thought remains but words reduced to rust,
Half-buried in a storm that blinds within.
Why does the snow persist in this closed space
While, far outside, it melts and yields to spring?

Grandfather, still I see you seated there,
Unmoving as a figure carved in stone.

Your face still lingers in that dim-lit room,
Reflected faintly in your quiet gaze.
I ran to you, compelled by thirst for warmth,
For fleeting proof that you would still remain.

But now you’re gone, and when I reach for you,
I clasp the hollow of my solitude.