11.04.2003 :::
Numb
1 of 15
It's at the door and cannot speak.
It knocks and knocks, you cannot hear.
You would come and it would run,
But you won't, it's not really there.
The child screams, because she can smell
The fear of things, that live so near.
Fingers curl, mobiles twist and turn,
Hypnotize the monster 'til morning.
It comes home, after last call,
Using the amplifiers to gain a roar,
Wakes the dogs and with his snore,
Calls the cops, unlocks the door.
They pull him off the golden chair,
Wait officer, there's something there,
A mother's head, a bizarre smile,
A daughter's scream, a red mile,
Streaks the house with domestic stress.
The baby's cry up the stairs,
A year too late, some taxi fares,
Too bad it's never there,
No it's never really there.
::: posted by Matthew at 3:52 PM
