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| 'A Little Light' by Trish |
brushes her glossy blue-black hair.
Paints lipstick pink cupid bows, on her pouted pale mouth.
It's clear to me, she is beautiful. I can't help but wonder,
would a mad woman recognize beauty?
And as well, would a sane woman, see, the trees in winter,
that stud the large park, near her home, as dead stars, or as petrified people.
As scare crows, dressed in shrouds. As dancers frozen in poses of classical grace.
that never move, and now, neither do I.
That is, until the little bell, that tinkles morning, noon and night,
its faint sound, beckons me, and the other lost lambs, to come.
To come, one and all, to the dining room.
The food arrives, and the detachment, lostness, loneliness, discontent, disillusionment with life,
manifest in stony silence, or scorn, and scoffing , at the moch creamed fish,
at the soggy jam sponge, and then, all file out, without thanks.
I can't help but ponder, who would one thank in an empty world?
There is a flee of a man, keeps hopping round, the girl with
the red wounds on her slender wrists, secretly taking thirsty sips, from
her rounded, milk white body. And there is the man on the porch, seated in a cane chair,
reading a newspaper, he reads it every day, as soon as it's delivered.
He makes the place look quite normal, if one didn't know better.
I can't help but wonder, would a mad man read newspapers?
Perhaps he doesn't believe he's mad?
But then, why else would he be here? In this place, for lost lambs?
But, the strangest thing of all, is the wire, that keeps us all prisoners.
The wire is only visible to us lost lambs,
other people just walk straight through it, when they visit,
and out again.
I've decided to ask them, the next time they come,
if when they leave, they could they take hold of both my hands,
and try to pull me through, and free of,
the invisible wire, that only lost lambs can see.
Tushie 1976
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