DropDrops,Drops on the floor,On my window sill,Rolling off the shingles,Splatting on the door,Bursting on the tiles,Tearing at the scenes,Numbing out the pain,Hiding away the screams.
The empty house is a metaphor,Of a family gone away,Where they went? Who knows,But they are gone to stay.The birds singing in the morning,Tell you about a clock,The hands spining in inches per hour,But still they never stop.If life had a metaphor,I think it would be a song,Enjoyable evey second,But never very long,The girl in the corner,Is a metaphor of yourself,A pretty face to look at,But more than a trophy on the shelf,
If you venture by an orphanage,You see things that you can't erase,You see dolls gazing out of windows,And the broken firetrucks the decorate the yard,You see the pillows yellow with tear stains,And shoelaces forever to be untied,You see kids with hollow faces,You see plates with food untouched,You see desperation and depression,On the face of an unforgiving child,You see girls with pertty pig tails,With ribbons in their hair,You see boys with messy faces,With striped button shirts to thier necks.The button shirts are a chokehole,That keeps them in their jail,
I took in a breath of fresh air,The fire inside was bright,But you came and blew it out,And that killed my light,All I have is smoke,Swirling in my heart,Hot enough to be re-lit,But not hot enought to start,The day you blew my love away,I was cold and afraid,Because when you chose to love me,The fire inside me stayed,All I have is smoke,Bellowing in my chest,And as I remember our love,I realise I was blessed,
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.