synopsis of trajectory type tragedy
the day after the dreaded day
and the meals limp leftovers now
stuffed into the bulging fridge
our new neighbour taps at the door with a
synopsis of trajectory type tragedy
she spills her daily story with soft sounds
all over the living room glass table
and plays with its entrails
while trying with halfhearted desperation
to pry certain monies from certain people
without being too specific cause then that'd be rude or something
her projectile vocal charade slowly subsides
into a vapour trail of trying to get her get well
out of the spare change the sing flier has left behind on
the last beer run of the night next door
he is passed acknowledging himself
her feet ignite the carpet
when the bag achieved is glory in her ***** pocket
she cooks her dinner in a spoon
and the night is
spent chasing the fluff across the spaces in her mind
and deep in bathroom mirrors
fascinated by the focus
and delicate operations it takes to get
the place into what it shouldn't be
she falls asleep with her hand in some old mans pocket
as the sun creeps over the lost horizon
she admits in a whisper
that we have become the lost children
that we have become shadows of what we once thought so grand
filthy clothes replace
the latest threads from the fashion house
and the newest thoughts are fresh off the press too
the defend the empire of the needy
and require the few to to fend for the many
but the reality is
we live hand to mouth
day to day
desperation is measured in moments
that you cannot answer the tears in her eyes
she rattles around the kitchen
making me coffee
and two eggs over easy
but her own breakfast she cooks in a spoon
the projectile tragedy was the last
thing i wanted to relive
but here she is on my living room carpet
my ex chatting with my current
and im in the other room
holding
out hope that someday you will cease
this and come home to stay
the candlelight denied its own shadows
it moved with the wind but resisted change
it was a late fall evening
and the wind had grown cold
with winters first touches
and there in the only light
she showed me her face full of trackless tears
and the troubled things that lay within her mind
the choice of changing words
never spoken clear never spoken quick
but the story they gave me was
a dark tale flowing from her past
the places she had been in the years
and how she was
hoping to come home at last