Sticking plaster for the soul

 

Sometimes we need

a quick fix,

a sticking plaster

for the soul.

I’ve cut my fingernails

to the quick,

cut a hole

too close to the bone,

and now my soul

is beginning

to drip

to the ground

in pools.

Spluttering across

the stone

like the words

stuck in

my throat.

 

I got the wind

in my sails,

but I wasn’t

checking the maps,

now I’m sailing

off course

and there are rocks

in the mist.

I’m not sure

if the island exists

or if I’m just catching

the waves

of a lunar eclipse.

 

I need some hope.

Just a stray cloud

of happiness

sifting through

the gloom.

I need to see

a sunbeam smile

shining down upon me

and I’ll be happy.

 

See I’ve been digging

through the molten core

of my story,

and my fingers

have been burnt

too many times.

I’ve been digging

through sand

and now there

is just a hole

where my heart

was once found

and I’m falling,

yet there is

no place to land.

Sound of dreams drifting away

 

Raindrops

drip

on hollow

heart.

 

Plink.

 

Plink.

 

Plink.

 

The

echoing,

thin skin

like a

xylophone

trilling

a sound

that drills

into the soul

and starts

to pull

the pieces

apart.

 

The

 

sound

 

of dreams

 

drifting

 

away.

 

Rainbows sit

up in the sky

but downcast eyes only

look at the dirty ground

and frown

as their world feels

flipped

upside down,

like a needle has slipped

a groove

and the scratchy air

itches at the strings

of the heart left bare.

And the simple melody

plays on.

A detuned harp strummed

without love

or care.

 

The sky dances

with colour

and flair.

The music it

fashions from

the elements

in the air.

The winds whistle

swoops and falls,

as windchimes sing of love and all.

But the downcast soul

doesn’t hear the song

for his head is full

with too much noise of its own.