Do not feel beyond this point
We cannot tolerate sadness here,
It echoes with our own.
You must not let us see your fear . . .
It does not need to be known.
Your anger is unwelcome;
No matter if it’s justified
You may very well have a reason
But you should keep it all inside.
In time, you’ll learn containment;
You’ll not let anything show,
Your exterior will shine contentment
While your inside is hollow.
You’ll be corroded to the core,
A dump for toxic waste;
A brightly painted steel door
Protecting our distaste.
Your pain might be infectious
And being cold is the only art;
Our sensibilities are more precious
Than your beleaguered heart.
Waiting for the train
We heard its whistle once again
And stood, still, waiting for a glimpse.
You and I, in limbo, in the grey,
Hardly expecting to be here,
Forgetting our mutual joy
Under the cloud oppressing us.
Over the grey weeks that we walked,
Catching sound but never a sight,
We strained to glimpse our bashful train
And on this of all days, it came.
We barely had the faith to wait
But somehow we stood, mesmerised
By a far-off whistle’s promise
And distant chugging on the air.
A moment before hope ran out
The plume of steam appeared in view,
A purer cloud beneath the grey,
Wreathing the engine’s ancient black,
Like signs of spring crept upon us.
I saw joy in your face, and yet
You would not take it as a signTo be patient, my love, and hope.
How can she not remember
Why she tears at me distractedly,
Ripping long shreds from me,
A father’s hands shredding into her?
She leaves when he comes to her
And finds herself here, after.
Picking at me as if I can tell her.
As if to uncover a secret
She has buried in the plaster.