Colin Marschall Poet Prose Poetry

~keep the Home Fires Burning~

You notice the trees seem grown up, so much more than you have; arms are thick, gnarled 
like they have been force-fed steroids, unlike the used pipe cleaners that hang like wet 
towels from your shoulders.

Recalling the privet hedge that your father loved: shaping bolster boundaries every fourth 
week, hoping it would dull the world into a soft subtle melody of background music; lying 
besieged by the rubble of too many feet, too many voyeurs.

Terracotta blotched across the portal to your cocoon, split like the moth had already flown, 
but you were the one who flew, singeing wings in your sense deprived flight; the night never 
felt as comfortable to you as it folded around your flames.

Your life littered amongst the charred past like a melded genetic mistake,
teddy morphed into something even your nightmares kept hidden.

You know the bubbled paper well its something you see in every shop window, a brand 
displayed as stigmata. They called you hero; you the one with hidden matches; you the one 
who craved infamy,

still burning.

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