Tiles
Tiles,
Not those which are even but those which are odd,
Stick to the eye like glutinous jam to an infant’s mouth,
Broad smiles as lips tack together.
Only tiles,
Magnetic, unavoidable draw and enthralling vista,
So said to be an echo of man’s imperfections.
Cracked, crumbling, biscuit-like surfaces,
Pious pieces of cool stone.
No more than tiles,
Form equilibrium beneath our feet,
Form rhythm and pattern and movement and stop.
At every edge, where the walls mark out barriers from the rest of the world.
These tiles,
Puzzle pieces to our being, stitches to the tapestry of our lives,
Blotches,
Make us who we mean to be, who he meant us to be,
Individual tiles on his floor.
I hear nothing
Nothing but the quilting of calm snow in the wind
Nothing but the groaning of the ageing wood beneath my feet
Nothing but the rasping metal gates on loose hinges
The eerie silence has fallen and will not rise.
I see nothing
Nothing but the false promises on gateways
Nothing but the hanging heads of flaccid flowers
Nothing but the memories piled high in unforgotten masses
The devastating image has left a scar that will not heal.
I smell nothing
Nothing but the atrocities of the innocent
Nothing but the floating scent of humiliation
Nothing but the secretion of mustiness from antique possessions
The haunting aroma has stuck to my skin and will not fade.
There is nothing left here of any sense.