The open gaping mouth of glass, looking in and looking out The light refracting across the silent room Everything is closed off; the blinds; the doors; the boxes The glass eyes of the house muffling the sounds of the outside world
The inhabitant grown a slave to watching The gaping mouth of glass, looking in and looking out Stretching lines, darkening eyes, smiles turned hollow She'll trace the filtered light with frozen desperate fingers
Her sounds are empty and echo like a dripping water from a faucet The tiled floor is as cold as the snow that falls. Unseen The open gaping mouth of glass, looking in and looking out The wind seems to be whispering words she no longer yearns for
The blood is dancing with the cold Warming the static embrace of her head and fingers The inhabitant closes the blinds again, hiding the quiet scene The open gaping mouth of glass, looking in and looking out
Most people believe this is about suicide so I'm going to clear this up. The inhabitant and the girl are two different people. The poem focuses on a scene, but the whole purpose is to invoke the feelings that come with paranoia. It's about a man who killed a girl, but also talking about the guilt and fear of hiding a bad thing we've done. I hope it somehow showed what I was trying to convey.
Once again you tell me nothing is wrong but I have known you for too long to see it. And with that little lie, things start to break. So once again I try to see what is wrong, but you are still a closed door in my face and with everything that is going wrong I can not take one more thing on my plate. This being the last drop to overflow my life. Now I find myself deep in a bottle of wine. Just trying to drink my problems away but it won't help since I'm stuck in place. Unable to move.
I closed my eyes against the mortal limitations of this world and settled back to watch reruns of my youth. Discouragement and dissatisfaction gave way to golden hours and glory days, depicted in vivid technicolour and accompanied by a flugelhorn fandango.
‘No story is the same to us after a lapse of time; or rather we who read it are no longer the same interpreters.’ - George Eliot