Smiles are fake
And this isn’t paradise
We’re stubborn and cold
Counting working bars on the electric heater
And sputtering, drinking whiskey, to warm our
Bodies and we remain indifferent in conversations
Which shouldn’t make it passed these thick walls.
Inside this room, the radio plays one of our favourite songs,
We dance and we don’t hesitate to fall for each other again,
When it halts, we stand and expose skin, then our hands lock,
We’re beginning to love as dawn breaks.
We’re train-wrecks, broken up and festering in these coats,
Under these rags, to preserve heat, outside these walls we can hear a busker,
Playing an acoustic guitar, perfecting melodies, while we die per minute,
Cutting up photographs of delightful memories, we hate memories,
They’re all dark, mystifying, and deeply horrifying.
We look out of knife scarred windows, scratched and murky,
But we see beyond these flaws, people queuing for bread,
Shot down by militia forces, faith breaks loose, and hearts, minds and skin,
Living inside the bowels of hatred this room is only a base
We will become formidable at one stage, and the man playing perfect harmonies,
Outside is our crutch, our source of courage and momentum.
Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist from Scotland. His work has appeared online and in print. He also loves to write cathartic fiction.