Deliver Us From It
A gaunt, porcelain shadow,
by Maybe Bailey
Stale liquors and suspicious smokes linger in the air around his breath.
He didn't drown in the spirits,
But came close, just desperate for feeling.
He needs to cry,
And looks at you with eyes that plead for help
- You can hear them screaming.
His foundation is beginning to crumble,
Just as yours starts to smudge;
But his eyes are dry,
Bloodshot orbs, parched from the lack of feeling,
That crept in with bereavement's anaesthetic.
He clutches your hand, like a frightened child,
But his cool palm claims
'It doesn't hurt anyway'.
Please don't brush me away...
Hallucinations, delusions of grandeur,
Deliver us from it,
Still it's hard to be quite as black as they try to paint.
In the eye of the storm lies still
A cloud of faintly recalled smiles.
His mouth labours to form the hardest hint,
But his lips are closed and his eyes show nothing more.
He'd be foolish to think you might be fooled.