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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.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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