king size marshmallow means king size cuddles forgetting gravity it smells of fresh meadows knocking at the door where am I somewhere inbetween night and day pillow and ceiling
moments of knives pushing against my skin eyes clouded in tears stream like waterfalls when I let the reality sink in caught up in the words of an artist’s calls
my sofa is a platform for my art sunshine streaming across autumn shadows threading brightness and warmth into my heart a stronger fighting voice in blue bedclothes
perhaps, music is what feelings sound like connected by the same strings and stories some days blades and waterfalls need the mic others echo softer, braver stories
pieces of steel fade with every season in stillness, I hear you without reason
The room smelled like old books and something unfinished Was I supposed to notice the photograph, or pretend it didn’t matter? Nothing changed - except the way I read it.
From the stars, she sees me Whispering honestly Sing the song, buy the boat be grateful for your goat follow through, on your word say it loud, make it heard call your love, make a date time will turn, it won’t wait set the course, find your friend carry her to the end own mistakes, learn a lot keep talking, stir the pot until you find every piece until your soul finds peace
Arranging words nto a beat teasing the literal from the implied to somehow extract my feelings. Like the eyes studying a mirror or the shadows in dark winter truth is manifested by the reader. It was taught as a method tucked away in English class rhyme, rhythm, and thoughts counted on fingers to fit a sonnet or villanelle as if feelings were science and language were math. I arrange the words in my head a cathartic exercise to escape or find whatever waits in the world behind my eyes.
Trust not what you see Your eyes edit the truth The camera keeps the wound open Simba’s vision of Mufasa rippled by the watering hole the camera would have only shown sky Eyes searching a mirror finds the story your brain has written the camera does not remember. A window catches a moment light fractured, time paused the camera is closer to the truth. Trust not what you see a picture paints a thousands words.
While you were sleeping the house was breathing Stretching it’s bones Exhaling in moans. The floorboard creaks as the doorframe speaks the tree rustles in the dark witching hour left its mark. The walls are painted in whispers as the darkness, omits her she’s missing from the shadows and only the house knows. Holding its breath behind the ageing frames until morning yawns and starts a new game.
It’s 4pm on a grey Autumn day when the twinkle in my eye starts to say it’s all them pigeons, I’d bet my pension I swallow a laugh as I pay attention.
On the screen, behind Churchill, they line like members of Parliament at Question time. Gatherin’ round to remember the war, chests puffed out, cooing at tours.
I listen carefully, drinking my tea as the voice in my head narrates the TV. The pigeons, I agree, are patrons of London, but that doesn’t mean they’re the guilty ones.
Um, what about the coded messages, bows and circles as they make their pledges fueds in the vestiges of Westminister - could there be anything more sinister.
I wrap up my work as I contemplate how pigeons have shaped my homelands fate is this payback for Trafalgar Square those years we scattered and chased from there?
Charlie Ann Alford 
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