STORIES IN THE LIFT

The stories in the lift,
weighted, like stones
tied to a corpse,
drone all the way up
to the fifteenth floor.
The elevator should have gone down,
it’s burden stored
in confessional coffin,
stuffy venting cage,
full to the brim
with perverse life-rage.

The box stops.
Two women get out,
drag their feet along the hall,
leave no doubt in their wake.
Lighter now, I descend, make
my exit by the door.
I feeling agitated and sad
as I remove my badge:
A. Counsellor, and try to recover
from another set of circumstances
told to no other.

An honour, as always,
but still I reel, ask:
“How much can people take
before breaking for keeps?
Enormous body blows of sorrow
bite grave-digger deep,
darken every tomorrow.”
The mind’s rat-infested gloom
then invites demons dance,
and oh how they enjoy,
shimmy right to the heart,
play their part,
lay eggs of hate on all our plates.”

I begin to weep for humanity,
for my own sanity….

“Going up anyone?”


©2008 Nicky Jones