Her Room Was A Shambles, Her Eyes Were A Mess.

February 26, 2014

Her room was a shambles, her eyes were a mess.  The Mona Lisa lay at her feet, yet again.  
She wore razor blades around her neck.
His belt was made of papyrus and he smelled like oaked strawberries.  The leather had taken up smoking again.  He dared not tell his mother.
The TV was on a frozen setting just to keep the buzzing sound.  It has not heard from anyone.  At least not since last Tuesday.
The gate is adorned with foul wishes, filled with secrets.  It remembers no names.  It remembers many faces.
Her safety films sit by the fridge and scream "Get me out of here."  She opens the door and disappears.
He looks to replace a bulb but does not know How many of him it will take.  No-one ever explained the riddle.
The gate is always closed but keeps no-one in nor out.  Not him.  Not her.  Not you.  Not I.  It never tires enough to sleep.
And so they watch.  And so they wait.  And so they sigh.
- Written 2014-02-26


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