In that slate-grey room
Where your silences pile up
It’s mildewed and musty
Mottled and moldy
Like ragged tattered dolls
In a childhood trunk
Your love that was warm as coffee
And woodsy as the pines
Has deteriorated into numbness
You fight your pillows at night
And your solitude by day
In a thousand acquaintances
You look for that old friend
And end up confused
Amid busy, winding roads
They drive themselves with laughter
Seeming perfection and bonhomie
Their lives are full of cheer
You hastily presume
As you shrink into your shell
Yet you shut the window on rain
And shy away from the bloody rose
You nibble bits of sins
And riddle yourself with guilt
You are warm and tend to wish well
Camouflaging yourself in grins
Exchange pleasantries
Sweet social nothings
Friends, followers, obnoxious banter
And you flit by like a dandelion
Wanton, seemingly boundless
Yet deep down you die
In that land of deliberate silence
Where the nightshade grows
Wondrously purple
Its yellow heart bleeding
Disguising venom
In frail tulle petals.
