bobby's mind wanders
his momma said hes a good boy
but he has grown to be an old man now
and there is nobody left to gauge if hes still good or not
he gathers himself in the bus stop corner
out of the rain
he scans the ground for dropped coins
and his gaze falls
on a crumpled bright paper
one corner shows a crinkled face
its a sinister face
he unfolds it
and unfolds the paper too
all the years fall away from his eyes
troubles slip away into the darkness
all the things that
he should have, could have, disappear
the paper leads him to the tower
and the wretched machine spins slowly back to life
he takes his place
in the dusty room slowly turning the hand crank
unfolding two hundred sinister faces
unleashing two thousand bare feet knuckling
the threadbare carpet leading to sunshine
it isnt what you think that traps you
its what you feel
its the past you have not faced and defeated
its the things you fear
its what they make you feel
unfolding two hundred sinister faces
and they feed on his weakness
by making him feel strong
eats at the scarred surface of his soul
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
bobby's mind wanders
his momma said hes a good boy
but he has grown to be an old man now
and there is nobody left to gauge if hes still good or not
he gathers himself in the bus stop corner
out of the rain
he scans the ground for dropped coins
and his gaze falls
on a crumpled bright paper
one corner shows a crinkled face
its a sinister face
he unfolds it
and unfolds the paper too
all the years fall away from his eyes
troubles slip away into the darkness
all the things that
he should have, could have, disappear
the paper leads him to the tower
and the wretched machine spins slowly back to life
he takes his place
in the dusty room slowly turning the hand crank
unfolding two hundred sinister faces
unleashing two thousand bare feet knuckling
the threadbare carpet leading to sunshine
it isnt what you think that traps you
its what you feel
its the past you have not faced and defeated
its the things you fear
its what they make you feel
unfolding two hundred sinister faces
and they feed on his weakness
by making him feel strong
eats at the scarred surface of his soul
part two of "100 sinister faces" which i wrote 5 days ago...but the poems dont really have much in common..about two very different subjects... they are, if you will pardon the pun, two faces of the same words.
Request permission to use this poem