There is a scream inside my head. It was a scream but now it is dead. Scissors broke its beastly cry that kept shadows pacing to wind symphonies blowing Irish lace sideways. A lone branch still reaches with its wicked finger, marking the nailed wooden cross above this mental bed. The fake leather boxed travel clock quiets midnight’s heavy breath with big ben hands and glow-in-the dark arms ticking out the obvious: there is never enough time before the fall of the dawn. The scream fell to the silver tool in her hands upon my command releasing years of wasted energy. Where did that leave the rest of the quaking aspen that whispers its pretty dreams to the tangerine sky icing new layers for the moon. You may think you understand this mystery, laying the cage to capture the lamb chasing the cow that tries to catapult the moon, but You are no wiser than the ewe. It is too soon to know if the scream has really left the echo chambers inside this soaped up head. The brain has been washed, now it just waits to build up enough dirt to attempt regeneration. Let the rains fall onto this parched ground, drowning the quivering that dare not question if it is okay to bloom early. Rise up! Don’t lay in-state, waiting for permission from the sun. You’ll wait enough, then an angry swirl of grey adventure will sweep up those innocent roots, uproot those dainty buds with a wrath befit for one deserving of San Quinton. No one breathes in polite company that the fine china doll from Aunt Bess is kept in the linen closet until the Girl grows too old to play with it. It is only when she has finally been broken, that the red bonnet baby will be wrapped in a trunk to travel to a new home where no one knows wrong, but right is whatever perfection has been declared by her mater’s throne. Wait! One moonlit night after all her seeds have been sown, the scream will grow so loud that it will send her outside to dig up every last white mum to bury every last locked year as her hot tears beat the rain for moisture ,covering the parched earth with a smell of detritus and blood: we call it death; others call it life; i call it love.
All posts tagged prose poem
Posted by angela on 2012/07/31