I.
It’s hard to write
When your emotions haven’t gone down yet.
(Wordsworth was right)
It’s hard to organize words
When feelings are crawling all over the place
Rolling to dust on the floor
Besmirching my brain attic
That I had just barely organized the day before.
A shiver of wind smokes through the door.
I do my best to frown and then not to frown.
I sit up and then slouch down again.
And somehow it was twelve o’clock at night and somehow, they were there again – in the police office and staring a bloody (literally, not rhetorically) yellow backpack poised on the glinting, greyish-cold metal desk.
At morning he woke.
He had been awake a few minutes before already, since his bedside wake-up lamp that modelled the light of the sun had already accustomed his brain to sunrise. His alarm bell had chimed quietly in the “wake up” melody that experts had proven to be beneficial to stimulating the brain.
In a delicate solo waltz,
I put my feet back, then put my feet forward,
Jerking my body smoothly in a push-and-pull of gestures.
Never ask me if I stand alright,
For my form will teetering fall,
And any mountain that quivers tonight
Tomorrow will be rendered small.
“Well? What has broken your heart today?” his friend half-jeered at him. Adrian pressed himself back into the soft settee and didn’t answer Cyril’s provocation.
Pass on the Devil! - Villanelle
Pass on the Devil! Pass on the Devil!
Pass on the Devil for justice and joy,
For pity’s sake, innocence!
Never ask me if I stand alright,
For my form will teetering fall,
And any mountain that quivers tonight
Tomorrow will be rendered small.
Upon the disillusioned bank I stand wavering ground
By the black water running with gruesome sound—
I see memories upon memories swing by.