Wednesday, 1 August 2012

Where the Wild Things Walk

    

You could almost hear the screaming soul;
all the things it wanted, but could not voice,
all the times it called, 
and hoped,
and fell on its own sharpened spikes.
You’d hear it longing,
where the dark things walked,
hear it wishing to be heard, but afraid to talk about 
any of the aching parts; you could see 
something sharp had cut
at its heart, and though it hid behind walls 
of pure lead, you could watch the pool growing larger, 
as it seeped under the
foundations, and bled; 
drowning promise
in a ruby river; 
and some moved away 
from the advancing wet sliver,
concerned to preserve themselves, and avoid the stains,
some climbed up to the highest shelves and watched the 
scarlet rain, a true 
spectacle to behold… 
Some sat still, and let it wash all over 
their skin and shining hair,
turning more crimson by the moment…
and still, the screaming soul was silent, 
barely noticing anyone was there.

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