Faded Poem by Jerry Pike

Jerry Pike

Harrow, London, England

Faded



Yellow rubber gloves and a bucket full of spuds,
creeping like the devil’s own, luring silence to the bone,
sneaking in without a stir, hugging wine before the blur,
tapping up some useful folk, till the meaning starts to choke.

Hardly soft, a put down queen, skirts the edge of no ones dream,
lurks till sundown, wakes before, slipping sideways, out the door,
fast as spooky, walking flags, dashed to dots, no sign of rags,
pile designers, dress the walls, room for zero, after alls.

Black as counted, colours cry, never brightened to the sky,
paced to sleepwalk, life away, thrilled by nothing for today.
Go adventure, maybe not, monotonously chained to spot,
worn out carpet under toes, wonder where the hell she goes.

No plan working, day to day, welded to some other way,
TV soaps remove all doubt, every episode they shout,
don’t dare bet, the losers backed, monsters hide, their ambush pact,
stops the garden being used, some strange creature, once perused.

Stash the pennies, hide the cash, spend on nothing, cause a rash,
patch of judgement, stitched to sleeve, who the hell do you believe?
Tattoo possibles, outside, let the passing world reside,
where it’s written down it’s score, life appears to fade once more.

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Jerry Pike

Harrow, London, England
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