The wood of your casket,
Splintered my fingers.
Slipped to the underdogs
and they rejoiced, for they found one more wound to brag about.
The lillies danced,
And I asked your father, if he he could see them too.
But he pushed me off his chest,
And called me a ‘f*cking drunk!’
The winds sing,
Oh wait, that is a Syrian threnody
Sounds like a mothers wail- a melodious lullaby.
But they are laughing at me, calling me dippy.
How do they not hear it?
How do they not see that,
under there feet
A volcano of blood is burning hot- ready to erupt.
The metal walls,
Fortifying their glass castles will melt
and they will melt down with them.
There is a swan,
Looking for a black swan,
But his life passes swimming away.
I tell them there’s a monkey sitting on their shoulders,
And it is controlling them.
Monitoring their actions.
But they don’t listen
‘Hahahaha’ they laugh hysterically.
So I spit on each of their shoes,
I watch as their honour shatters.
Somewhere deep from the crowd,
A bulky man steps forth
His hairline receding
His face brimming red with anger
‘That’s enough he says!’
And I recognise him then,
He is the monkey, controlling everyone.
‘There will be trial, for this man with fungus on his toes’
He adds referring to me.
The wind sings again,
But this time it is an angry crowd cheering for revenge.
I open my swollen eyes,
I am in an arena.
The humongous red lights, pinning me down.
I hear something else layered under the wind now,
Of a trillion tiny wings,
moving in solidarity.
Lots of them.
I scream for the people to run,
To save their lives
But they curse me over and over again.
From the crowd,
A woman with rouge on her cheeks
And a lilly in her hair
her turquoise eyes,
Damp with sadness
And she whispers,
In her honey dripping voice
‘Shush, this type of thing doesn’t suit someone with a monkey on their back’
She smiles down at me,
I know the monkey is now standing over my back,
Sizing up its prey.
So I close my eyes,
And I hope the volcano erupts sooner in this town.
I hope the fireflies eat them all alive.
I pray for the swan to find its black kin.
I pick at the unhealed wounds on my fingers,
Picking out the last splinter of wood,
Of the wooden box they buried you in.
I am coming to you my love, I am crawling to you.