#53
Joyce is a Shadow
Joyce is just a shadow.
She melts into the walls and hides
in the words left unspoken by friends
alienated by the angry wars fought over seas;
and the battles left hanging in our bodies.
Who says we have a right to kill ourselves;
and Joyce melts into oblivion.
Excitement rolls through thunderhead arguments,
as lightning tongues lash against
rain beaten homes that sit squat and low
huddled against the mighty storms that wash over life.
And Joyce flickers with the candles that slowly
fade away, melting, slowing time to a perilous stop.
Who are we to say that yesterday was more important
than how tomorrow comes about?
The sun is so gorgeous.
And Joyce haunts the back of the rooms,
eying the corners with envy.
Who wants to look at the forgotten;
who wants to pick her up and hold her tears
in his palms as she sees a dying world?
Like mountains fading into the horizon
while the desert stretches infinity hands.
Joyce is just a shadow hanging on the wall
like a sad portrait of forgettable ancestors
who glower at the modern times.
Remember, remember, life was hard
and the land was serious - treat it well.
Though shadows dance in firelight,
Joyce trails off to the corners of the room.