Written by Finnley Quinn
A low and distant hum-drum,
uncouth and unkind,
a distant sprawling memory,
yellow haze, sloughing mind.
It writhes and moans and flickers
foggy, fragile eyed.
A shiver licks upside me
Harsh rooms in which I died.
Dust – it settles slightly,
on the dresser subconsciously,
peeling paint of memory –
I hear incessantly
my cries around the corner.
She sees me standing there.
We share the same few tears,
the same unbrushed blonde hair.
I can’t retrace my quandaries,
scared of what I’ve built,
come winding, crawling, biting
my body filled with guilt.
She wails and floods our bedroom,
screaming that she’s kind.
But I know she’s not quite me,
I must quash my quailing mind.
Drowned in sweat, but better yet,
She bounds in my direction.,
Far to reach, I must impeach
and choke my own reflection.
On the ground and laying sound,
I see she has no power,
my hands unclean, she takes my Queen
my brain begins to sour.
I look inside where I reside,
the mind of which I’ve tapped,
what have I done? The room has won,
and here I am still trapped.
Author Bio:
Hailing in all the way from the Mater hospital, Finnley is an actor and self-proclaimed poet. Alongside their Bachelor of Fine Arts (Acting), they have a deep passion for writing and performance art, pulling from lengthy poets such as TS. Elliot and Sylvia Plath. With stage productions with Underground Theatre Company, QUT and the Velvet Collective, Finn is ready to take on the world of writing with a bold face and fountain pen in hand.