I fondle the staircase to the outside.
It is a cool, crisp night tonight.
The ‘clink’ of the gate is all that I hear
as I ballet dance the footpath.
Lucy sits outside, a stranger. A Samaritan.
Ushered inside to Angels, monotone words speak of ‘it’.
Then comes my chariot, driven by dark blue horses.
Amongst beauty and blackness stands the place.
It used to be the village old police house.
Now it is a trawler’s net, silently reeling in man’s victims.
My feet soak up shadows.
Voices bombard my ears, as I take note of
the dusty pink sofa, the dusty pink curtains
and the pile of children’s toys in the corner.
They peal my layers, drain my heart.
Violate me again.
My body numb against intricate procedures,
…Not clean enough, I embrace my shell in
a white, downy robe, and tea is my comforter.
Perfect, untouched, crystal beads,
balance perfectly upon jade-green blades,
perfect bodies crushed beneath in-held breath
then silently I glide through empty streets,
my head, a screaming siren of tangled thoughts.
The foggy orange glow of the street lights,
are the only sharers in my loneliness.
A shield amid reality and deadness,
the world awakens to sunlight but
I sink into depths of sleepless thoughts,
this shadow follows me.