She has all sorts of things to say.
She hangs on the wall.
She rarely says anything of importance.
Such a small village,
Such a turbulent life.
Show us what you see,
Tell us all about what you heard.
Suck it all in deep.
Keep the airs down because you will need them.
Steal away the opinions,
Tell us all a tale.
Walking down the dark hallway,
Never trying any of the doors.
She has all sorts of things to say.
Hope I get around to listening.
Her world is filled up,
And she hangs from the wall,
Stolen and frozen in all her good times.
She holds all of the antidotes,
She will watch for the ones with icy stares,
But sleep will avoid her,
And keep her in a constant motion.
She will write about the men,
And the women and you and me.
Telling the tales with a crafty woman’s precision,
Which will often come out short,
Dried, cracked and aged like wine.
All from the heart.
The darkest and smallest of still beating hearts.
She will play all the good notes,
She will do her very best,
To leave us all with beautiful music,
But as she hangs from the wall,
Silence will paint its way around her,
Filling in the spaces to the left and right,
Up and down.
Such are the times like these.
Such are the ways,
She hangs.
All aligned with the time taken,
And the stories she’s told.
All with the constant, carefully worded stories,
Which come out as silence.
Which come out as a scream.
© T J Hellbrew, 2016
the poetry of T J Hellbrew 