Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

There is a black box in the corner of this room,
A tomb containing recycled dreams.
(In this room) I cautiously stand on the splintered floor,
(The nails penetrate through to the bone
Of some sure-footed boy with a mind of his own.)

There is a black box in the centre of this room,
Its recycled dreams penetrate, splintering my mind.
Exposure to hard light; my world doesn’t look right,
My constant premature hindsight: “I never had enough time”.

I lay some flowers by the box in the centre of this room,
I’m in mourning for the loss of the dynamic idea.
And cried as I watched the repeats all again,
The disastrous mistakes made all again, and the tears
Fall nationally with fictional pain.
You see, the news is always bad,
               And our lives are just the same.
The news is always bad,
“The alcoholics, the drug-users”. The eyes they close nationally,
Like the beat of a funeral drum.

Exposure to hard light; my world doesn’t feel right,
Symbols crash, perception altered, an eyelid covers the sun.

In the dark musty air, a veil concealing my senses,
I kneel beside the box and pray for salvation
From this place, from myself, from my self-condemnation.
I wept from the depths of my voiceless spirit,
In memory of the dynamic idea.

There is a room, which surrounds my homely black box,
Through the glass I sometimes see hope
In that unnatural existence which remains to entertain,
Which reminds us of how we once choked
On the foolish abstraction that endings can be sad.
And that the news doesn’t always have to be black.

There is a room which surrounds my homely black box,
Where life is more than a show.