waterproof

three minutes before
you walk out
through the door,
you hide
the bruises from
your fingernails
under your bed.
then you look
at the mirror,
walk through it
instead and
try to chisel
your stone soul
to flowers, balloons,
then you walk out,
dejected, say
you gave up
too soon, just
like cemented
footprints, too
vacant to cry,
the iced frozen
spider webs
wanted to fly.

two minutes before
you walk out
through the door
you find your
old heart doesn’t
work anymore,
creaking like lone
rusty swings
by the sea,
all quiet and
dark green like
vain sympathy,
swallow the
yellow paint, night
lights that fall
through the rickety
dark wooden frame
on the wall.

one minute before
you walk out
through the door,
you find you
at breakfast
wondering which
colour of steadfast
waterproof marker
you’ll sketch your
smile with today,
you know, pianos are
black and white,
most days are
grey, you know,
rain is dauntless,
that most smiles
are cold; there’s
no place for free
apologies
in this world.

T. E. Pyrus

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s