AtticPaper corpses in sagging plastic mausoleums,The vital salts of their words leeched out,Through roots of dust and cold.Oublietted clothes, forlorn now, past redemption.Sucked dry of color and sheen byForgetfulness and veiny sunlight.That one window shows nothing but brown clouds,In its fixed, cataracted stare.It has hinges, but no motivation.Bare walls glisten with just the promise of damp.But it smells of weeping brick,And infirmed cardboard boxes that'll never walk again.Even the spiders seem to have vacated at last.A decade's story of their grim work,Expands like a crumbling dessicated lake-bed.This rug died of
Lady of the LakeDrawn on through dappled sun and shade,Through pristine sward and murky sedge,Her melody of subtle gliss,Attracts me to the water's edge.In rippling stars she cloaks herself,I cannot see her other side,Her glinting surface holds me back,Her leeward shore to me, denied.And in the shadow on her face,I seem to sense her hidden deeps,Her song calls from a benthic place,Which tragic secrets rule and keep.To lift her heart from those cold depths,I'll dare to dive beneath her waves,And if I drown you'll know the cause;She was the love I couldn't save.
Paper ThinCautious, taut, I pace the room.My revelation glistens here.The glimpse I've stolen of the truth,Encloses and restrains me.All of you are false, it seems.Mere phantoms of the show I watch.The world is but a backlit screen,A paper bag around me.And if I were to run in fear,And crash against the flimsy world,The universe could rip and tear,And I'd become forgotten.
~THE REAL VINYL SCRATCH~