Rips Apart Her Frail Heart
© Surazeus
2018 09 28
The way light floods the kitchen with strange hope
on Sunday afternoon, through blank white glow
of something half forgotten, cased with words
never spoken, though birds remain to sing,
buoys my struggle to swim the tide of change.
Framed by silver that flashes, restless wind
whispering nowhere through the house, outside time
of recorded change, however we choose
to conceal the anguish, though photograph
of her face never changes in the hall.
Another broken ladder that falls, faith
in nothing but the words we never speak,
though all we hope stays contained in the frame
crooked on the wall, if she wants to go
or stay, yet this puzzle we never play.
Concealed in the wall of silence, the ghost
of her absence, dim memory of white walls
smeared red, although we paint to hide those fears
reflected by cracked glass of naked eyes,
still haunted by hope she may yet return.
Laughter of the child, in some other room
maskless emotions of trust, broken tomb
where no one goes to relate her lost tale,
upset water flickering through tangled grass,
or when she sees me with startled desire.
Exquisite features sculpted by stiff hands
of compassion, cracked marble bust, glass door
leading nowhere else, serpent hissing more
than angels sing, to fly on broken wing
over walls of paradise, wretched sea.
Restless sea, waves whispering names we forgot
to record on sand, sea breeze in each room
playing chase among curtains that veil her face,
still gold sunlight on the round kitchen table,
secrets concealed in long-forgotten fable.
Blue window glass of shame, spiderweb threads
fragile as her heart that suffers in silence,
sunlight gleaming through wispy clouds, true love
crushed like flowers under car tires, albatross
on trembling wings with ancient tales of death.
Little wood model of the sailing ship
glides on sunlight that beams in kitchen space,
cursive letters hidden in her lost diary,
orange juice in clear glass, by her old frail hand
reposing secrets of books, half the world.
Why should she tell them what happened to her
that night at the party, since they would sneer,
and never believe she is innocent,
through the cracked mirror of desperate desire,
transformed by fire, nothing is permanent.
This puzzle piece showing apples must fit
somewhere in the grand scheme of the real world,
roots clawing down into soil of her heart,
apples sucking spirit from her mushed brain,
reborn as the blind angel of small lakes.
When I find her standing by forest pool
she explains to me without words how pain
from getting raped rips apart her frail heart,
broken shards of the crystal angel bright
as the indifferent sun in her gashed hands.
© Surazeus
2018 09 28
The way light floods the kitchen with strange hope
on Sunday afternoon, through blank white glow
of something half forgotten, cased with words
never spoken, though birds remain to sing,
buoys my struggle to swim the tide of change.
Framed by silver that flashes, restless wind
whispering nowhere through the house, outside time
of recorded change, however we choose
to conceal the anguish, though photograph
of her face never changes in the hall.
Another broken ladder that falls, faith
in nothing but the words we never speak,
though all we hope stays contained in the frame
crooked on the wall, if she wants to go
or stay, yet this puzzle we never play.
Concealed in the wall of silence, the ghost
of her absence, dim memory of white walls
smeared red, although we paint to hide those fears
reflected by cracked glass of naked eyes,
still haunted by hope she may yet return.
Laughter of the child, in some other room
maskless emotions of trust, broken tomb
where no one goes to relate her lost tale,
upset water flickering through tangled grass,
or when she sees me with startled desire.
Exquisite features sculpted by stiff hands
of compassion, cracked marble bust, glass door
leading nowhere else, serpent hissing more
than angels sing, to fly on broken wing
over walls of paradise, wretched sea.
Restless sea, waves whispering names we forgot
to record on sand, sea breeze in each room
playing chase among curtains that veil her face,
still gold sunlight on the round kitchen table,
secrets concealed in long-forgotten fable.
Blue window glass of shame, spiderweb threads
fragile as her heart that suffers in silence,
sunlight gleaming through wispy clouds, true love
crushed like flowers under car tires, albatross
on trembling wings with ancient tales of death.
Little wood model of the sailing ship
glides on sunlight that beams in kitchen space,
cursive letters hidden in her lost diary,
orange juice in clear glass, by her old frail hand
reposing secrets of books, half the world.
Why should she tell them what happened to her
that night at the party, since they would sneer,
and never believe she is innocent,
through the cracked mirror of desperate desire,
transformed by fire, nothing is permanent.
This puzzle piece showing apples must fit
somewhere in the grand scheme of the real world,
roots clawing down into soil of her heart,
apples sucking spirit from her mushed brain,
reborn as the blind angel of small lakes.
When I find her standing by forest pool
she explains to me without words how pain
from getting raped rips apart her frail heart,
broken shards of the crystal angel bright
as the indifferent sun in her gashed hands.
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