I was flying
Supported by strings
Like a kite
Made of newspaper
With happy headlines
And the next moment
I was falling, descending
Towards a cardboard stage
My life, a flat character
Chaotic and muddled
Skewed by the reality
Of a developed depression
It crept quietly into my head
In the darkest part of night
And stole the happy pages
I had written upon
Everyday the daylight dimmed
My perception harvested
And served to the faces
Peculiar eyes, surrounding me
Parading with grotesque masks
Their silly misshapen mouths
Opening and closing, speaking
Their dialogue the color of charcoal
Tainting my survival script
And yesterday I awoke to rain
The dirty color of grey and rust
And I absorbed it like a canvas
Takes in its painters masterpiece
Until the hue of my soul
Ended up black and blue
And the only safe place
Was in the open grave
I stood perched above

4 thoughts on “CHARCOAL DIALOGS

  1. Newspaper kites, such fun at times with a ball of brown string or twine. Such emotive photography. But here, Ochre colours, yellows, browns, purples, reds, and all their shades, whether dry or wet, colour a different world, even when inside and present to storms and their masters.


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