mandag 9. desember 2013

Bedtime Stories // I am no poet

A silent bed whimpers in misery,
dreaming of times when it spoke a thousand words.
Of married folk, of lords and mistresses,
of trembling teenagers and secret lust.

Its clothes have been ripped off,
torn, burnt and hidden.
Its wooden body lays covered in dust as it stands
in a stripped down space longing for one last embrace that may never come.
Like an ancient relic needing to be discovered
its history will never be unlocked by warm bodies tangled up in knots,
by fiery breaths and lingering looks -
by blonde locks of hair resting on its velvet body.

No one will ever study the wooden embellishments carved on each side
or hide under the feather blanket;
an old companion locked away in a closet somewhere.

As this bed stands silently, its siblings speak restlessly;
they squeak and weep and mutter and flutter
they breathe and cry, they laugh and stutter.
Naivety intact.

A joyous dance,
as they stand unaware of their ill-fated future,
yet to hear the tale of our silent friend
with a story to tell.