My Melancholy

by Susan Abraham

It is morning time,
A bad time, a sad time.
I lie limp like a rag doll,
curled into the solitude,
of my broken hand.
If you didn't know me, you
would think I was dead.
See the wires that crawl out of
my thumb and
the finger of a twisted bone.

My nails shine like mirrors,
manicured to spearlike polish,
ready to scratch words from a
sewer, and spouting rubbish
from the clumsy violin strings,
of my own silly heart.
Then too, blessed with a nice neat
parting from
its torn jagged rut.

I wear no haloes, only a
mismatched crown of foibles. I
carry the mother heart, an
artist's wand and sometimes, a
witch's broomstick... Perhaps,
my face is of a magician, that
I may play all three roles
at once, or none at all
preferring
to swim in my ocean of pink.

The colour of worry, the
perfumed
rose scent of a delicous sorry.
Now uttered, now removed, now
lost forever to the song of wind.
And so I take my bow, a big fat
curtsey to leave my scene of pink.

It is morning time,
a bad time, a sad time, I am
curled like a baby, a soft
cracked pudding featuring
rubber ball skin,
that thinks and sings that
blinks and sinks,
that mummifies a compost
for the cryptic riddle I
stay unto myself.