IN THE LATE HOURS IN THE SILENCE OF THE DARK BEHIND THE BEDROOM DOOR HER WORDS COME ACROSS THE AIR TO WOUND IN THE EARLY HOURS IN THE VIRGIN LIGHT OF MORNING OVER THE FLOWER GARDEN AND THROUGH THE WINDOW HER WORDS COME SWIFTLY FROM THE MORNINGS ANGER AND THE BRUSES ARE ETCHED FOREVER DEEP LEAVING ME TO DROWN IN TEARS HIDDEN BEHIND A SHADOW OF LAUGHTER IN THE BASEMENT BEHIND A DOORWAY A TABLE AND A CHAIR AND A DIM LIGHT TO SEE MY TABLET I STRIVE TO FIND LIFE AND BREATH AND HAPPINESS AWAY FROM THE HAND WHICH THROWS THE STONE IN THE DRAWER UNDER THE PAPER A GUN AND A RABBITS FOOT I GLANCE TO THE WALL THE TIME IS LONG AND GREY THE THEOUGHTS ARE FROZEN AND LOCKED OUT IN THE SILENCE I GATHER THE LESSONS OF YOUTH AND STRENGTHEN THE MIND TO CLIMB THE STAIRS AND ENTER BACK INTO THE REALITY OF MY LIFE IN THE EVENING THE FRONT DOOR SLOWLY OPENS AND QUICKLY SLAMS SHUT I SIT IN THE STILLNESS AND WAIT AND I WAIT---AND I WAIT EVENTUALLY I GLANCE TO THE STAIRS WHERE SHE CLIMBED TO FIND HER SLEEP IN THE BEDROOM I ENTER TO FIND MY REST EVENTUALLY IN THE SILENCE OF THE DARK BEHIND THE CLOSED DOOR HER WORDS COME ACROSS THE AIR TO WOUND AND ANOTHER PIECE OF ME DIES
Reason for writing:
"SOMETIMES, THE LINGERING MEMORY HAS NO MEANS OF VERBAL
EXPLANATION. IT JUST IMPRINTS AN UNFORGETTABLE TRACE".
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Christopher Rudolph Keough/Capricorn.