Friday, September 13, 2013

Baby With the Bathwater

What happens when the sky shines only black
and clothing feels like the wearing of a leaden robe

When the call for help goes to voicemail
and that unspoken name and number are rote

Where every step forward freezes into concrete
and the past and present see no future

How favorite foods are cooked and grow mold
like days that pass one by one by one

This is how it feels, how it wears down,
how life transcends to tears that pool in caves.

And so it hides in the hands of a clock that ticks
waiting for its movement to cease from rust

Or it can’t wait, so beats the inner drum,
so scarred, scared and sacred is time

The pen is picked up to write on paper burning
with words shared for someone else to feel the pain