Splintered Soul
Daylight beckons with crooked finger,
turning my back, I watch night retreat
with sadness.
In its cloak I can appear invisible.
This tourniquet, wrapped around my heart,
grows tighter with each passing breath.
Diminishing all chances of recovery.
Dust settles over this persistent frown
safe in the knowledge that no smile,
will ever disturb its rest, no fingers
will smudge its presence.
The telephone cries out with false promises;
Unanswered, it slips into regretful silence,
accusing me.
Through the sheltered window, grey sounds
of a world content to revolve.
Never missing a lost soul, buried under
the jetsam of self-pity.
Metronome agenda,
countdown to self-destruction.
Stripping away the layers of deceit
until core of me lies exposed.
Barren of the smiling mask,
sorrow beckons.
Copyright © Colin Marschall | Year Posted 2006
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