Dedicated to _singtothesky , because I feel like it :)
***
Broken clocks with still faces,
Standing in quiet hallways.
Reddish wood turning black
With age and mould -
No-one to clean away the dirt
Stuck in-between little crevices.
Frozen hands that point
To times that are unreachable.
Brass details carefully etched
Into the frames of portraits.
Soft eyes forever captured
In carefully applied paint.
Pale faces, dark faces, sometimes
Not quite either. Sad expressions,
Noticeably tainted with longing
And concealed egotism.
Ticking silenced eternally:
When will I realise that
Breaking a clock will not
Prevent time from continuing -
And yet there is a sadistic
Satisfaction that I find in the
Shattering glass veils
And bent metal hands.
Familiar strangers hanging
From old, worn wallpaper.
Warm cheeks, cold noses -
Structured perfection in the slight
Parting of sweet, rosy lips.
They do not move, but study
Shadows falling on the wall opposite.
Vacant, unblinking eyes.
YOU ARE READING
the mind's recesses
Poetrywords that fell out of inky fingers, and stained the paper that lay on wooden tables.
