Details |
Emma Wells Poem
Repressed, sombre colours
weep a blurry sadness.
Melancholic, metallic hues
bite a frustrated, untouched lip -
silently surrendering
crimson, golden spheres of promise…
They dissolve, shrinking to watery flakes,
melting to a near oblivion.
Lyrics pin hopes on a pointless map,
touching tender triggers
like hidden, yet potent handguns.
They fire at will, tearing happy slices,
dumping pieces like fly tipping
at abandoned roadsides.
A darkness cloaks a raw nakedness,
reclaiming unwanted goods -
left to rot, depreciate, decay.
Your car mocks in superfluous glimpses,
a fading memory of physicality:
each visual spot pings
like unruly snooker balls
bouncing mindlessly
in a green baize haze.
You are an unpotable black fly
that hangs frustratingly near erasure.
An occasional dark-haired shadow
pricks an interest –
a sickening silhouette
that makes me gag,
choke down globs of feeling
like unchewed mozzarella,
it sinews, rotates playfully,
suppressing breath,
with a Devil’s self-satisfied grin,
rubbing out my pencil markings.
Deep sea dreams
take me to you:
to depths far wider –
than your tattered, single-sided soul.
You exist only here:
in an unreal, dimming realm,
where cruel, captive eyes hide,
blanketing honesty,
burying it in a hellish underworld
beneath stocky pillars of deceit.
I swim by your faded embers,
where you suffocate the kindling flecks,
shadowing in gravestone grey,
snuffling out light, and choosing to
drown in monotonous misery.
In contrast, I sing a mosaic painted lullaby,
dazzling with cacophonous colours:
blindingly real, kicking my mermaid fin –
my scales of beauty speak a frank ditty.
I ascend upwards,
touching truth,
breaking the lying surface.
Copyright © Emma Wells | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Emma Wells Poem
Intuition flares,
prancing in ostentatious circles,
feather-tip proud.
Lugubrious grey wigs
speckle gregariously
bedecked by flamboyant gems:
they flicker frustratingly
in stifled Regency ballrooms.
Our embers, in contrast,
are quiet. Shushed.
They wallow in dark corners,
hidden from prying eyes.
Predators.
Our collective eyelid
flutters closed:
too shy, subduing to privacy.
A silent tear streaks
our collectively cold face.
Science ensnares our senses,
making ordinary life dim -
blindingly darkened;
teetering on Boredom’s knife edge –
we long to carve it free;
infuse new scarlet veins
into its unthinking, meaty flesh,
stoking a smothered fire,
rekindling its earthy,
endearing embers.
Copyright © Emma Wells | Year Posted 2020
|