StubsWe laughed too hard and too loud and too often, I think,
Because now , it feels that I wore out all my laughter,
I've run out of it.
I'm the Queen of Laughterless Land, if that's a thing?
I open my mouth - it makes the right shape..
... but the sound won't come.
Oh that lovely, genuine, trickling sound
A true sound of a moment of pure pleasure,
Immersing me in its reds and yellows -
For they are the colours of laughter.
Electric blues and forest greens,
All the primary colours filling my eyes.
And it's absolutely, definately jazz,
Heavy rock , the very first time you hear Thunderstruck played loud enough to vibrate in your chest.
And ice creams, a 99 with a flake.
At least those things made me smile, once.
But now they're not, they're really, truly not.
It's like all the colours sludged into grey.
The paintbrushes are worn to a stub,
And the radio won't tune
And the ice cream melted,
And there's no napkins to wipe up the mess,
No windolene to sparkle the looking glass up
The fašade is worn and tired
Poetry by 1LFD
Read 43 times
Written on 2021-09-25 at 22:52
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