Broken Doorbells

When you’re singing to a sea filled with porcelain, you’d probably sketch out an image a lot more abstract. Puppets with no strings, a clock that can tell the future, or maybe the tiny dancer down the hall. It seems these days I haven’t got the chance to strain the words.

You could tell me the moon is made of polystyrene, eyes are florescent, or the sky is a dense hole that inhales life from the earth’s soil; I might believe you. The pretty girl on the TV screen is a painter, but no one cared. No one believes me either. We’d stumble on haunting, cracked sidewalks where you would ask things about life.

“Do you remember Vera Lynn?” you’d ask.

“Do you remember Bonnie and Clyde?”

There’s something different about the way the phrases would escape my lips. Did you feel the cold clouds of my breath?

“Did you know we had everything?”

“Is this last you will ever see me again?”

I tremble to whenever I hear such words channel my spine. I had the front view of a world that would collapse. Rockets in the sky, lost souls falling clouds, and plastic chairs crashing through building windows; I should probably start going. Here doesn’t feel right to me