Steel pin claws pine for brazen company
underneath welcoming folds of delicious numbness
mouse lays in warm arms, eyes swimming contentedly
while Vultures gather outside of the mouse trap, taunting
the mouse in final jeopardy, unknowing of the fate
as inevitable as Autumn.
Mouse can't see that the place of refuge is death,
instead cling tightly as tiny talons twitch
turn body into the side, push steel spike into rib flesh
as dream tears dry on singed sanguine fluffy lies
as dark flies gather to consume mouse when death finally arrives.
The mouse trap hidden from prying eyes a, steel death spike
underneath waiting to spring a loathsome surprise.
Cirrhosis skies, purple clotted clouds
Vein lighting shudders across
the horizon of life's deluded miles.
A million mice asleep each in their own mouse trap.
Mouse sits suddenly sensing the trap. Pull aside the cotton layers,
the deceit is revealed to screaming eyes. This was never your bed.
This was NEVER your friend.
Mouse bolts out of the cage before the trap is sprung.
Vultures move to the next cage, this one is done.
Owning onerous memory, fledgling flapping mouths yawning nest-mounted in unsteady awnings
Dangling feathered Owls teetering-teasingly on the edge of falling down
No good morning only asking strangers to unpick the monstrous dawning
realisation that your mind has been pick-pocketed by cuckoo-faced porcine snarling raiders
Raising the potential of living this life without any real idea how to stop life just from pouring
from every pore, feeling poorly pressing against the door, unmoving, mourning.
Removing orange stains from carpets where wrists were torn open blood-letting in letters
using words as blades, fawning at every stranger offering you even a hint of relief from appalling
flashbacks and PTSD dreams. Yawning.
Sleep now, another trauma day is calling.
by Paul Sinclair