Keys

 

Who will unlock the cuffs

chaining the heart to a dungeon

where everything dies

and nothing survives without going insane

in the moans from the deepest wounds?

 

It’s tea time for the princesses

dwelling in basements filled with screams,

they fake laryngitis to avoid the truth

you can’t dress for a ball

to cover the blood

flowing from scars that never heal.

 

In the long, silent afternoons

of dull, throbbing temples

and recitals in the head

for ballets in torn gowns,

the shackles created in the mind

keep the day imprisoned

while pirouetting over graves

where dolls and tears are buried,

 

Nobody will hear the sounds of grief,

none will notice another’s absence,

because they are all too busy

looking for escape

from their own cellars.