THE FAMILIAR
A mysterious mind, wrapped in second glances and double thoughts,
struggling against the dull reverberant ache of things unsaid and the pathetic thrashing of a brave, imprisoned child pounding at the immovable stone:
“I’ll show you, I swear! Face me if you dare!”
All that hard-earned good will drained away in a drooling moment like spilt tea through rotting floorboards.
Down we spiral, drunk and drowned
smiles and frowns
farms and towns
screams and sounds
Drink, drink, drink them down
and stretching out a gnarled hand through a rusted rooftop grate,
reach for a young one, wrapped in stoney silence and whisper:
“I’ll show you, I swear. I’ll show you I care. I do care.”
Descending stairs and dissenting glares. No one cares. No one cares.
Follow me down to where the damp comes from, where the lights aren’t on where the saints belong.
“They don’t make them like they used to.” he said.
Then gathered the sheets around him and curled into his bed.
Static smiles and half-rendered embraces cover a disappointed love like ancient, threadbare rags - revealing more than they hide, insulting more than they praise and confusing more than they guide.
Let it be real, let it be real. Real like steel in winter time; biting and groaning, singing and moaning, but real, oh so real.
Reliable and predictable, impliable and explicable, that steel. That cold, real steel.
Lower a ladder and rescue the wretched.
“I’ll show you I care. I promise, I swear.”
Twist free from the clamouring clasp of counsellors and saints.
Ascend the stairs and ignore the glares, leaving them to their damp and setting each step ablaze as you cry “Who cares?”.
Pry open those rigid smiles and slip free from those prescribed embraces as one escapes from loosely wound bonds of ignorant intent.
And then, stepping through a new door into an old room and gently laying her hand upon his shoulder, she said:
“They don’t make them like they used to.”
Then she crawled into her bed
And pulling the dark around her,
curled back up inside her head.