The Mausoleum Man

She walks to the end of the world alone now.
She knows the mausoleum man all too well.
All she knows to do is crawl back to the keys-screaming.
She plays all night- until the sun burns her fingers.
Then she hides again- and she screams oh so quietly.
But the mausoleum man is built like a doll house-
And the mausoleum is built like a tank.
She cried for her ivories, But the doll house is built like the mausoleum man.
She walks towards the door to the outside
He doesn’t stop her from leaving,
But he doesn’t say goodbye either.
She stops before putting on her slippers-
To give him another opportunity.
But before another shot is fired, she steps outside.
Her brown bob just covers the old bruises,
But doesn’t do any favors for the new ones.
Her mettalic insecurities do wonders for the ivories,
But not much can be done for her posture out here.
She thought he would look at her if she stopped eating.
Obviously she was wrong.
Even after cutting off the loose ends, and putting on her best pearls, a brave face,
He didn’t even glance.
So she is left wet slippers,
A moldy piece of toast.
Old and new scars,
And bones.
Even with her thrifted protective layer,
One can see through to her bones.
You can see her spine being held by the mausoleum man,
You can identify her hands in those of a doctor,
You can see her skull, forgotten under a doll house,
And you can see her ivories, in the hands of a young Her.

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2 thoughts on “The Mausoleum Man

  1. This was one of those rare poems where, when I got to the end, I had to start reading it again. The title sent my mind in one direction whereas the events that unfolded within the poem went in another.

    Nice work.

    Like

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