I remember the image Of the bathroom floor. Mosaic of razorblades, The chains of regrets, The pain one forgets - Lighting the stained glass.
Tears decomposed in a moor Whispers of the lost amours, Red bubbles on the bathroom door, Eyelids, the lands of the poor; Injuries cut wildy, to the core - Illuminating the stained glass.
I can still go through The same rusted door, And feel the same feelings, In every awakened pore - The bathtub has no more ceilings. Slowly dissipating, then gone, One by one...
And one by one fears Are flowing around, after all these years. The crippled eyes And screams of a child - Echoes in the sink,
Never wanted to be found, These feelings in a blink. But as I turn my back, alas! Crying voices from the past, Are fading on the stained glass.
Those details are good. Photographic memory here. I love that. Dark yet very clever. As the mosaic can lay down in colorful pieces, just fixed to be fit well. Nice write!
Whispers of the lost amours, Red bubbles on the bathroom door.........The bathtub has no more ceilings.........Echoes in the sink,.........fading on the stained glass......wonderfully dark piece.