The Can of Worms

The Can of Worms

He spent too much time

in small rooms behind closed doors

opening windows, inviting devils in

tossing off personal failures

with a frustrated heart

rolling with each punch of the pounding fist

of his broken mind

to ever realise that by his own hand

he killed us all.

 

Fond memories draped in sheets

are locked away

in storage now

gathering dust in corridors we never dare walk down

and those voices we hear echoing back

grow more paranoid and telling

and stack unsteadily

against the back most walls of our skulls

ready to come crashing down at any moment.

 

What a noise it could make

what a mess.

 

This can of worms

we keep a lid on it

it’s old news

it’s water under the bridge

it’s any cliché you can choose

to put a sticking plaster over it; try to forget about it.

 

 

Denial—

he knows the curse of his shadow

he built this pitch-black crime scene

the blue lights have been and gone

and the sirens are faded now

and the jury have said their piece

and after a narrow escape

life goes on as

—normal?

 

All the bulbs have blown here now

There’s no light in our eyes

and no flashlight nor candle can shine bright enough

to ever wash this place clean

and here we are

gagged and bound

by an unspeakable truth

complicit in his lie of innocence

a lie we wish we could still believe.