I hear the click of the clock,
a switch from the knock
yet all along
amongst a candle wick,
as it flickers against
gypsum and timber,
it casts shadows of figures
and doubt that lingers
even though it knows
chatter doesn't matter
as the tick
whispers and talks.
To the walls,
and in fact all,
whom is silent and calm,
those sirens at dawn, turns to
teeny tiny piles
that hover till gone.
A mother too young,
a habit thats wrong,
turns to dependence, and
loss of independence
caught in a synopsis
of suspense
and transcendence.
I'm lost in my senses,
divided by impressions,
that I leave weaved within
these sentences.
It's simple and insensitive,
destructive as the menaces
of dealers, I call
life-stealers,
holding fentanyl in a pendulum,
swaying in place,
stuck in their pain,
as we're staying in wait
saying to keep on praying
and it'll be ok.
As they keep on preying
on the veins,
inflamed and enraged,
keeping them
sustained and contained
in boxes that are
rectangular in shape.
As we point the fingers to blame,
a minute to late,
to limit our great
leaves us timid,
as they're living
in a vivid image of
failures and mistakes.
A mural of waste,
in-graved in the ways
that we meant to pave
success,
from itty bitty stories
by our heads
in bed.
Cause when it's time to confess
it's best,
to hide in fiction,
than to protect the rest,
societal mission,
and
prevent a suicidal condition
from those
who need to have hope,
come knock
on a metaphorical door.
And a clock that stopped
at quarter past four,
its as silent as those sirens,
for the talk from the tick,
breathed its last breath,
and has got words
no more.
YOU ARE READING
If the Walls Could Talk Chronicles
PoetryIf these walls could talk, what would they say. Would they make us laugh, make us cry, or hold onto our lies? Welcome to the chronicles that make up life each day. There's a knock on the door, first I'm shocked then I'm sure, the tick tock from th...
