Illusions, the only form that the grey box of pretty spectacles will ever give you.
The only gut that you will ever have,
Swept away by the words of power and rights;
That mental blockade, shifting your thoughts to anguish,
The languid expressions the child on the tea-stained carpet will jilt your peace.
She is you, we are all you!
Your clothing, oiled of desolation; decorated in petticoated ash flowers,
You, your clothing, your mind stained . . . of this.
Pathways. Leading you nowhere and stopping you from your runaway attempts.
They are coming, the sirens are coming, cover your eyes,
Not your ears, you need to hear what the people on the grey box said they would protect you from.
Silence is deafening and deafening is silence,
The only words that will describe the way you left.
Your eyes, gone, your cheeks gone, your hair . . . gone.
Your hope . . . gone, am I immoral to tell a story that never ends?
by © India Breen (14)
Weatherhead High School, Wallasey
Competition - War Of Words
Copyright remains with the author.