The Hall
Come in from the cold,
declares the rare hour, here to the day of sleep,
coughing and creeping through the burnt violin strings -
the hallway buckling to its knees, saying please
make me human, run your thoughts over my arms,
here I am - welcoming you on the stairs.
Her hair tied up on her head,
tendrils of tumbling bees,
sigh in the shift of a trapped window
and a pair of shoes, bitten at the toe,
grin, like a wheezing
grandfather’s wheelbarrow –
full of walk but no room for tomorrow.
Take your rest here,
I was born for time running through
and my desire
is a pair of pliers
to bend the shape of wait
and tie it to my flowers –
the ones that hang from the coat stand,
forgotten and unmended,
and a macaroni birthday card you made,
left behind in the rush to grow up
stowed in the cupboard
with the mustard touched wires
of childhood.
I sigh mirror eyes
from the depth of my fires
that go whistling around
doors opened and jammed
in the haste -
in the taste -
of your morning run,
the cost of what makes home
so precious to escape from.
Come in from the cold,
I am worried and old
and streaked
of my limbs -
how I have waited!
My tickle fraught and fought,
salted and drawn
on the dawn bated -
knowing how late
the want is for you,
coming home to me.
Noetic-fret!
Thu 29th Mar 2012 19:02
fantastic work.
Biggupz
x