Under These Red Sheets

Under these red sheets,

I bury my morning dreams

The clay of the sky is raw

shaped by fingers that hesitated

to smooth the creases out of

intentions, prevaricated

allowed to harden, flawed

left to permanence, endowed

with the attributes of being just wrong

these tiles are poised to fall

These doors that lead to walls

dead ends of dust and bone

Tombs to mistakes preserved

of people and pain long gone

Under these red sheeted tiles

I bury mourning memories

Baskets of forgotten scents

routines of glories deceased

In corners, green shoots still crawl

traces of persistent hope

Pathological, sometimes it seems,

that cancerous happiness grows

I cannot hope to recover

the already hardened faults

the cracks that run, closed over

by vainly slapped on gloss

Broken girls grow into broken women

And despite the damage being done

The soil of my mind is fertile and

with stubborn resilience overrun

The dead wood still speaks to me

There is escape yet in these leaves

To nourish what I know I can be

Under these tiles I bury my dreams

©yusra

06.12.2017

Winter blossoms. 🌺

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One thought on “Under These Red Sheets

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