Please login or signup to add a comment to this paragraph.

Add comment   Close
Shaunna Harper Shaunna Harper
Recommendations: 35

The Insomniac's Verse

Share this writing

Link to this writing

Start Writing

More from Shaunna Harper

Letters From 213
The Elixir
Sapphire Lips
Cold Compromise

More Poetry

Deborah Boydston Deborah Boydston
Recommendations: 45
Murder in the Senseless
Leoni Carlson Leoni Carlson
Recommendations: 12
Aaron Greene Aaron Greene
Recommendations: 30
Author's Clog
Leonard a. Wronke Leonard a. Wronke
Recommendations: 23
Kitchera Hicks Kitchera Hicks
Recommendations: 11
soul mates

I let the night in
through naked windows,
glass painted in its black flesh.

The movement of unknown neighbours
cascades down peeling walls,
keeping me from peace.

He slips like a guilty shadow,
drunk on the city night;
the flower in the window grows.

He puts out the candles with his fingertips,
turns them black from burn,
the outside world springing from his lips.

The wisdom in his eyes
belies the youth beneath his skin;
I try to look for it while he is still.

Beyond our cheap and innocent world
the city crumbles like rotten teeth,
ignorant of its own demise. 2 comments

He lights a cigarette,
toying with its fumes
like spinning clouds in his skies.

Nothing is said but
burdens are worn.
Alive, I begin to asphyxiate.

We are children dead too soon.
We are mummified
in our hopeless grace.

I relight the candles.
He watches me dance with my shadow,
creeping up walls like poison ivy.

I can smell fires
that burn miles away,
hear newborns wail with fresh pain.

He comforts me with melodies
from a broken guitar,
disjointed and beautiful.

The flower opens,
spreading inside the window.
The world blinks at it.

I drink more whiskey.
He serenades me in our skyline home,
almost carried away on the wings of planes.

Every day we get closer to
finding the rainbow. No gold,
but plenty of colour.

I am drunk. He kisses me.
Too much knowledge
stops me from savouring it.

He will leave me soon.
I will pretend to sleep
and pretend to wake in the morning.

People will flood streets like locusts,
and I will see in every face
something to die for.

I will drink more,
high on the obscene evening,
and contemplate their collective mortality.

The flower breathes.
In the trembling light, it looks like a face.
Like a fucked up face.

I close my eyes, my ears
to the street beneath my body.
He loves me. He does not know me.

I cradle the flower,
bury my nose in its petals
and weep.

It will be my misery,
my legacy.

Link to this writing

Share this writing

Next: Stand Up, Young One