This pasty off-white wall,
I hear the life from within,
from within this off-white wall.
It was only slightly off-white,
perhaps an eggshell or an ivory.
It was only slightly off-white.
The whites,
(whatever's not
strangled
by red)
of my eyes stared at the white paint on the wall,
hungry for a definition for this shade of color,
and an answer,
for this life beyond the drywall substance.
And then,
I had realized that
it was a drastic shade of white,
with the pinks
of a salmon or a peach
dripped into the bucket of paint,
foolishly and accidentally.
Committed with a malice
unforgivable to humankind.
And one to fuel my irritable nature
(unlike you,
I can admit that,
my dear).
The goosebumps scattered across,
wildly and in absolute horror.
They feel like reminders of the life inside,
but I know they're just
the texture of the wall, I know that.
I do.
I'm sure I do.
I promise that I do.
I do.
("Not everything is to be examined
beyond the worth of its answer,
my boy."
That's what he would say to me on
Sunday's and Saturday's,
on Sunday's and Saturday's.)
I can hear it.
I really can.
I give three knocks,
and three knocks return.
"Is it alive?" I mutter
to the crying floorboards,
to the deadly dust rodents.
It's alive. It's alive.
The wall is alive.
The paint is chipped,
and scratched at,
as if someone was trying
to get whatever was
on the other side.
As if I've never truly
been alone. As if there's
another entity with the same ambition --
of finding out
exactly what is on the other side
of this goddamned
wall.
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryA collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan...
