Withered fingers
Cannot play anymore;
I drown in nuanced shades of blue,
Not seeing, in my plight,
My strings, wound tight,
Suspending me
Like a puppet,
Tethered to life.
I in my tattered clothes,
Blue like sorrow,
Torn like the heart that hopes,
Unable to keep out the cold
Or cover the secrets I hold—
I am the man who mopes,
Holding my guitar close
As it whispers its chords
Whilst I, cross-legged, ponder
Life in rags and cardboards.
Back to the old routine:
Awash in blue,
This song’s for you:
Echoes of a gunshot;
The click of a trigger.
Lone baby craving forgotten plays
Without holidays your aching days
A distant uninspired walker pays
While others will not see your dismays
Cardboards covering and biting fasting
Local shops can’t say when this was starting
In search of the desired and vital alms
A pallid hand cannot grasp desired calms
Your suffering in lasting overgrowing pain
It’s an agony become everlasting reign
It’s misery which is like an unbroken chain
It’s a life where nobody is to put on blame
Now darkness and rain will wrap in a homely slope
Under the bridge with coal in your fireplace and bowl
Solitude and cry deprived of maternal soul
Forever alone with a dream of a console
What we're made of?
Perhaps the
invisible obvious,
Of human
misunderstandings,
Silent and hostile
stares.
We are made of
Silence,
Silk paper and
Aniline.
The colors of mine
Country.
We are made of
Fondant,
Flavors of the
Earth, and brow
Sugar.
Fleeting desires of
Cotton candy.
Illusion, hope, and
Cardboards,
This is discolored
Full.
We are made of the
Breeze, and dream,
Of pure nothing.
We go away at night.
There's love in this room,
From a mother to a child,
Shall I say from a mother to her son?
There's hope in this room,
From a mother's heart and her soul,
That some day,
She'll have a better life for herself and her son,
There are days when this room
Can feel as if it's getting smaller and smaller,
Days when this room,
Can feel colder and colder,
A room, A room,
Once a kitchen and is now a home,
Walls, and walls, only one window in sight,
With air barely coming through,
On a sunny day, not a ray of sunlight,
A room so small; an old one too,
mud, water and some mortar,
Is all for these walls,,
A stack of cardboards and sponge,
Makes it easy to sleep,
kerosene lamp for some light,
There's nothing much in this room,
But, to say it's nothing but a kitchen,
And Now a home for Mom and Me. . .
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