Paul Willason Poet Free verse

On the Other Side of a Peep Hole

They twitch along nerves
still wired to those fever 
induced rooms, memories
of faces pressed against
windows, peering in through
curtains with their red eyes,
screams stuck in throats
suffocating to a groan 
in gaping mouths.

There were places to hide
when day came around,
a dark cave inside 
an iron shed with pale 
constellations of old nail holes
feigning starlight overhead.
The world was kept
on the other side 
of a peep hole
in the wall of the shed.

And yet there were lovely 
flowers blooming
under a bright sun,
the day would carry on
with the ordinary things
that had to be done. 
Terror would wear off
and morph into something
else instead, normalized
by the trick 
of becoming numb, 
or be little more than
a slight disturbance 
fizzing in the wiring 
of the head. 

Besides,
who would understand
when what was there 
has now moved 
way beyond the vocabulary 
of a word weary tongue.

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