Friday, 21 January 2011

Glass Jars

Dreams are lined up on shelves
Embalmed in vinegar,
Pickled and perched for prosperity.
Every so often nostalgic urges push,
I pick a jar holding it close my face
Examining the memory of dreaming.
These precious things,
Captured captives
I run faster from them,
from loyalty,
From conformity stretching out its hand
To grasp tightly at my throat,
I am suffocating in my own ornate box.
Where are the pretty girls
Wrapped in crêpe paper dresses,
Dancing round in circles mouthing words
To songs long forgotten after the dance
Turned from dreaming,
To lusting boys in buttoned down attire.
I cut them one by one from old newspaper,
Colour them in lilac, pale pink and blue
Then strike a match and watch them burn,
Pushing their ash into heart shaped boxes
Lock them in my jewellery chest,
My precious memories.
I’m clinging to nothing but dust
That runs between the day
And black shadows.
When truth comes looking I hide,
Pretend that memories are real
Until the sound crashes through my lies,
And the feeling of broken glass
Underneath my bare feet reminds me
That dreams can never last.