KERPLUNK

Maybe I should tell you of the cold parts in my heart,

The chilly and windy corridors,

The frozen corners,

That turned stony when…

Maybe I should take you on a stroll down the hall,

Show you the rows of shelves high and tall,

Empty,

Drenched in cobwebs,

Over the years of waiting for you to take a second guess at the prize,

Maybe you should see the frosty bland tawny floors,

With tear stains and dried blood,

And the scorching pain of nine cold letters,

And pure apathy; clear, like the kerplunk of a blunt knife.

Maybe you deserve to see,

Why my breath always smells like wine,

Why my eyes, call you near,

Why my clothes are stained with tears,

Why my heart beats with fears,

Why I—

Won’t say that here.

And maybe it’ll stitch my raw wounds.

Maybe I should take you high up the towers,

To the top tier,

Where the view cuts off your breath,

And raises your heart to your throat,

And show you of the many times I’ve thrown myself down the flight of floors,

To the rocky ground,

Cried out in pain,

Broke all my limbs,

And bled to death several times,

All behind the chains in my mind,

What I should really show you though,

Is the kerplunk in your reaction,

The painful insouciance of it all,

The faint glow of concern,

Before it fizzles out under your dominant apathy,

Your blatantly feigned promises of soin,

As clear as the shimmery stream,

Gleaming with white light,

White light that my soul can only yearn for,

Only dream of,

On grey nights laden with iron irony,

But maybe it’s better if I don’t show you,

Hold your hand,

Take you down to my dungeons,

The dark, cold and quiet pit,

And introduce you to my vivacious demons,

Alive and eager to tear me down everyday,

Diligent and deft at their work,

Like shoe-making elves before Christmas.

It’s true,

Maybe I shouldn’t,

Because the faint light will come.

A little cream at the sides,

Blue at the edges,

And a deceptive white at the burner,

Then fizzle out when my fire fans into flame,

And the 9 letters will burn my chest,

As potent as green Greek fire,

And my scars will dance in pain,

And bleed different colors on my chest,

When I hear the kerplunk in your tone,

The creak of the breaks,

The halt of the car,

And your quick but silent descent,

As you secretly depart,

While hiding behind white light.

And then I’ll come write this poem again,

With the sound of your kerplunk resonating in my ears,

And because I have no tears,

I’ll remember this airiness for years,

The persistent sound of your kerplunk.