Black Clouds & Apple Pie

And so the day begins…

In the oven, apple pies are baking.

She’s tried her best, 

But the pills don’t quell her shaking.

Her long hair has missed the brush,

With her make-up crumpled by a hurried frown,

It’s just gone thirty past eight,

But already she’s breaking down.

There are cookies in the oven,

Her gran’s special recipe.

“A canary in a golden cage is still captive,” she said.

“It too, longs to be free.”

Midday thunders on the horizon,

Black clouds gallop like British cavalry of old.

“You’re in the summer of your life,” her aunt once said,

“You shouldn’t feel the winter’s cold.”

There’s gas in the oven, not lit,

And on its tray is an unbrushed head.

“Life without love isn’t living,” she told him last night.

“You’re breathing, but really you’re dead.”

At midnight her legs are open,

A dry ride the short journey ahead.

His heavy grunts can’t drown the words said last night:

“You’re breathing, but really you’re dead.”

And so, the day begins…

In the oven, apple pies are baking,

But none save the canary can see,

How hard that life has become,

How far away is free…