Jig Saw
The legacy lives long after the deed,the seeds of doubt, long sown,
in every drunken hour and the
shower of spittle sprayed.
It's in laid back dreams and the
splayed incumbent figure
where you drew your breath,
heaving sighs, running fingers
through the tangles of threats.
Cameo brooches and lockets
containing hair of lovers lost,
and children who barely drew;
their moon coloured shades
of eyes, forever lost in
impossible dreams never realised.
The legacy of daisy chains
which die, brittle in the sunlight,
stems bruised by cuts,
forced into chains, white petals
discoloured and at the centre
a heart lying diseased in pieces.
The Last Will and Testament
read in the dry voice of a lawyer,
who flicks his tongue over words
longing hurriedly for his
three course lunch in the boys club.
Forget the trees where you climbed as a child,
rub the faded bruise from your first ever fall,
recall all the times where you lay in your bed,
shedding fear in the fabric that shrouded your form;
in the imps and the elves that cavorted on shelves
their glee filled shrieks echoed like banshees.
The legacy stays in roughened voices,
toughened skin brings no release,
because you can still cut hide,
however dried it may be.
There are tools that work it
and devils who shirk it.
I can cut a jigsaw but ~
I can't fit the pieces together.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2010-04-01 at 12:30
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Rob Graber |
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