Margaret’s eyes <br />are the most motionless <br />things I know. <br /> <br />They gaze into <br />what isn’t there <br />They stare into <br />the nothing she has become. <br /> <br />Even her past <br />does not belong to her. <br />It lies coiled <br />inside her <br /> <br />like a spring wound <br />too tight <br />A toy now <br />not in working order. <br /> <br />Her memory <br />has wandered off <br />without her <br />and got lost <br />somewhere…or...other. <br /> <br />Times lies <br />at her feet <br />obediently <br />still….life like <br /> <br />like her favorite pet Peke <br />(stuffed) <br />gazing up at her <br />adoringly <br />unnervingly <br /> <br />she still pats it <br />unthinkingly. <br />Every so often <br />Time melts <br /> <br />& she flowers <br />into speech: <br />“..and then he kissed me <br />and it was lovely and...! ” <br /> <br />The voice slowly fades <br />and her moment of bright time <br />is erased <br />and she lapses into silence <br />like a talking doll <br />whose battery has run down. <br /> <br />Where is she <br />inside her self <br />I wonder <br />do the words go on <br />even though unheard? <br /> <br />The flames <br />cackle at the logs. <br />The rain <br />chatters unceasingly <br />to the window pane <br /> <br />Idle <br />chit <br />chat. <br />The clock <br />talks back <br />to time <br /> <br />like an impudent child’s backchat! <br />The cat <br />purrs <br />& <br />purrs. <br />It is just... <br />exactly half past nine<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/margaret-s-eyes/
