The lingering odour of skin, smoke stained
On fabric and behaviours learnt, torn and burnt
All the while representations of irony
Spring up and flourish by sounds of siren
Deep from within the unwound, forgotten back streets
A palace devoid of royalty stagnates, their enigma
Only to awaken a far from fairy tale kingdom
Where lowered heads confirm discouraged hearts
Discarded brown paper bags blow as tumbleweed
Searching a vast soul now yearning for salvation
Just as the clasp on an empty bottle is too a burden
Replicating the mirrored inadequacy of one's self
Hush, don't stir, be still and forget
There is no need to fret, for your secrets will recover
As before, your eyes will cry desert like tears
Fuelling a familiar marathon of isolated misery
The sound of sullen and resentful silence
Inherited on the wings of the ever sure failings
Closest friend of the indiscriminate rapacious lover
Whose failings resulted in vanquished flame
Shane T Farrell
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
Tell me Whats Real?
I wake each morning
That constant pounding
Neighbours banging on walls
Why are they doing this?
They know I can hear
I look out the window
I see my familiar man
He goes through the bin
He too knows I'm watching
There is no familiar certainty
I see him
At the Shop
On the Bus
Walking past
Is it just coincidence
OR am I truly being followed
Watched
I find myself asking them to appear
I search for their cameras
Maybe a microphone
I turn the TV off and Wait
I sit in the darkness listening to hear them
I am fooling them
They think I'm in bed
Only I know I'm not
They are listening for me
I am listening for them
Until finally I fall asleep
Then the day starts again
That constant pounding
By Shane T Farrell
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC