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Next
It only hurts until you cry.
The slammed door quietens,
your baby eyes grow old,
in the dark, where no one sees
or cares.
"Life!" She said,
"You blink and it's still there,
waiting for your next move."
'Keep going!" Say’s the shopkeeper,
of your worn-down wares,
and you wonder is he,
a digitally created memory,
your ancestors sewed,
into your dreams.
The bedpan has been warmed.
A nurse throws up into a toilet bowl.
Father comes back,
catches you singing,
in your boxed-in bedroom.
slams your ears.
with wall-busting words.
"Cut!" The Director shouts.
The camera's keep rolling,
A movie now squats,
in an empty room - waiting,
for more directions.
The hurt has crawled back,
into its featherbed,
where mice still nibble
last year’s leftover straw.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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