The room the scent of gasoline,
Waiting for ignition,
Glass shards break under my boot,
A murmur of explanation,
Fallen picture frame, the photo gone,
A short and stark reminder,
The years the fears and private frontiers all behind my sunglasses hide.
It's when nightmare and dream are the same,
When the only weather is rain,
The clocks are all broken,
The mirrors are smashed,
My fingers all leave a stain,
I can't remember the name of a person or anything.
The room it's getting hard to breathe,
A fatal premonition,
The dust kicked up in dancing clouds,
A sense of occasion,
Footprints covered, as I had never been,
A gasping lost inhaler,
Their leers their jeers and peeling veneers, all behind my sunglasses hide.
It's where everything familiar is strange,
Where I forget how to change,
My Punches feel like feathers,
My strength is beyond measure,
Whole lifetimes in seconds to derange,
I can't remember the name of a person or anything.
The room with its' fading memories,
Silence my companion,
I clench my hands to retain control,
A sudden recognition,
The flask and cigar, belated commiserations,
A promise by a pretender,
Who hears who steers and trials peers, all behind my sunglasses hide.
It's whoever can find me the time,
Whoever found me this place,
An obvious riddle for the blind,
An inconceivable answer for my mind,
Wishing for whiskey and lace,
I can't remember the name of a person or anything.
The room has been set aflame,
Sparked off detonation,
The cigar alight I take a breath,
An obscure absolution,
Towering effigy, clothed in fire cleansing,
A heart torn asunder,
My tears my cheers and mental gears all behind my sunglasses hide.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 1 - A Fistful of Dust
PoezjaThe earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
