Tempers From Midnight

Tempers From Midnight

Temps the daylight,
From the pavement cracks,
With fingers sailing
Your arms now glass,
Set sail the vision home,
Secondary in the mirror,
But tertiary as your own,

From your vendor to your gate,
From cutlery drawer,
To the impression in your arms,
Iron in the blood,
Sailing down the vents
And conduit of your scheme,

Fractions of your self quiver,
Tiled white till growth,
On the bathroom floor,
Shaking off its roots,
And becoming a free flowing persona,
Gains legs through ambition,
Stands next to you in the mirror
And releases the same dry breath as you,
But with nothing to say,
Nothing has been learned by this double,
All it knows is it woke up on the floor,

From the marks in your arm,
Unloved with posture,

You run it a bath for drowning in,
Place the body on the water,
Stroke the hair from its eyes,
And watch it sink,

As it hits the bottom,
The final bubbles carry your name,
In wet syntax,
Reverberating around the bathroom
And finally into your mothers ear,
As she waits by the crack in the door,
Aching for a second child.

© Copyright 2006 Leigh Cole