What is it that gets you with heart-strings?
Grabbed pulled tight like a harpsichord in a drugstore.
Full bore and no throttle.
Like the mind’s willing but you’ve not got the bottle.
What grabs you by the windpipe and holds tight until that light behind your eyes fades?
What pain brings glory?
Which clarity tells your story?
What deranged cinnamon deprived demonic hidden backstaged enraged fear you crave, heals the wounds you enslave?
Encased in happiness without duress, I confess you’re the one they loved less.
Less like an empty hall, bare wall.
The grandfather clock with no chime that’s too tall.
Not seen or heard at all.
What is it that stores the holes we make.
For sanity sake we interchange faces and places for good spirit and cupcakes.
Transfixed with vexed heartaches we can’t partake.
You still count the seconds when you know it’s too late.
What bends you and contorts you?
Shapes and molds you?
Wraps you up bends you and folds you through holes you were born through.
Which envelope of existence delivers you a fantasy to cling to?
Buckle my shoe.
Which dream quantifies the quality of seamstress and her groans and murmurs.
In which dream are you the victim and in which you commit the murders?
No blood on your hands, simply detached.
That’s a master plan you chose not to hatch.
What stairway into the unknown makes you cry when you come home alone?
Which damp floor board creaky step, which he’s behind you, which “it hasn’t happened yet”, which “don’t you forget it” or child mourning comes to your mind without sound or warning?
What is it that gets you with heart-strings.
I am that which they never bring. The nothing that the heart sings.
© G.P Williamson 2017