Like Dawlish Winter Train Tracks by Paul Tristram

She remembers ‘Feeling’ it
rather than ‘Hearing’ it
start to buckle and give way inside.
Never really strong to begin with
yet enough to generally keep afloat.
Unwashed for two more days now
and another sickening afternoon
with just cigarettes for breakfast.
The cupboards are not bare
just untouched,
it’s her heart or soul or both
which lay empty.
There is still money in her purse
but the bills keep changing colour
and mounting up.
Brushing teeth is like climbing Everest
sdrawkcab.
She now understands 
why children draw arrows through hearts
upon the covers of schoolbooks…
it’s a form of cosmic telepathy.
You can tread water
trying to keep sane all you like
but when you are fighting 
a losing battle with yourself
it’s never your nice, bright side
which comes out the winner.
Most people are quick to be cruel,
there’s a degree of safety in solitude.
Loneliness; a ‘Mental Echo’ 
trapped inside like toothache and cancer
which is physically and emotionally
the most Horrific thing you can go through.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.  Buy his book 'Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096