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On the floor of his eyes there was somethin' writhin' in pain. There was nuts n' bolts in an old china bowl, the ragged smile of a young girl pushed behind a mirror, half a photograph he'd nearly thrown away, couldn't quite bring himself to lose her.
And in the corner somethin' red hung on a rusted nail, dancin' shoes, for tiny feet. Where was the girl who used his heart? The room was scented with broken flowers, n' oil stained clocks, he looked like he'd gone away, on funeral business, draggin' a dog behind him.
There was nuthin' left in the garden. A bicycle rested on a tree, with lillies grown into the wheels. And a thorn bush fell against the door, buryin' his solitude. In the latch a spider had a family, n' he fumbled through the letters tied with string. Losin' the cause.
Books had grown round him, with pages ripped out n' stuck to the walls. The broom stood in the corner, dignified as a friend. Birds fell into the chimney on silent days, leavin' the dust from their wings all over his face. And still her eyes could love him, behind the mirror.
20.7.04
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