Catherine Heath
July 2019
I’m not layered–
I’m marbled.
You get all of me at once,
And none at all as well.
I’d be someone else if I could be;
Someone opposite to me.
But I’m dust in the wind,
Or a patch of moss,
Clinging to a tree–
Desperate for eternity,
But we refuse to see.
It’s the devil on your back!
She cries,
In an endless disguise;
An exercise–
But no one hears.
Fear and fury
Flood her bloodstream.
The pills keep you sane,
They said,
(Whispers in the endless night)
But lies are all she hears.
Slow tears slide down sad cheeks
As she seeks something
More than this cold clinic,
More than dust in the wind.
A kind of beautiful sadness?
No one hears
But her.
It tears through her body;
A feeling that there could be
More than this–
More than this endless sea
Of curiosity and sympathy.
One day she found
The burnished crown
Was tarnished livery–
The pile of gold that glitters
Now just metal in clever disguise.
And the lies she’d heard
Became sad tales
Of lost souls,
Seeking their way home;
And money is just grief–
A thief of time
And hats.
Waiting in the wings,
A positive angelic
Influence the size of
Vesuvius –
But not quite so hot.
The plain truth is not enough,
As we thrash and twirl
Through eternity and time–
One and the same,
She cries across the abyss–
But no one hears:
The rocket ship sent to save
Her lost in Saturn’s rings.
But we wait,
And sing.
We have more time
And patience–
And nothing to lose–
Compared to those who use
Us.
The fuse that blows
Is not our own.
The wind that blows
Is an angel in the wings:
Watching over girls
Who refuse to die.
Credit: Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
