Posted in Poetry

Glasshouse

A house of mirrors inside the madhouse

I stand there quietly,

but not quite calm as I see her.

 

Draped in a costume, a chain on her neck, padlocks on her soul

Standing with candy.  

Sticky, sloshy gel for them to suck from a glittery wrapper

Her soul and brain smoking it up

Smuggled stuff inside a cold cellar, where her heart used to be.

 

She was smiling long ago in a green field, with the crops tickling her legs

Her dress fluttering, a little too fast, a little too high.

Blinking, eyes full of light and the warmth of love.

As air rushed in and out on its’ own whim, probing her mind.  

Minds don’t heal in flurries of snow, I don’t think yours has.

Mine rolled up like an armadillo, hiding the parts you probed for.

 

Now, she is black, shrouded in mystery.

Not a glamorous dress, but a veil of deception.

Sudden tremors from her spine travel up as she counts, adds and multiplies.

Lucifer whispers into her ear, a little too close for comfort. The world has hidden itself.

It always does, many spines together often add up to no spine at all.

 

Inside her, the child was sitting in a corner, under the bed

A slight coughy tremble and tear-stained eyes round with wonder and joy

As the world underwent metamorphosis. Broomsticks, elves and strange lands tickling her mind.

And she looked outside, my only flame. Then she saw me, and broke into a smile.

A smile I answered with a laugh, as Mother bent under with coaxing eyes

And my blurry, crazy world, for a few moments, couldn’t twist my mind

 

Advertisements