In my eyes

Butter knives carve out sharp mice
to go with the shy cutlery.
Virgin spoons clang themselves
in ceremonial cushionings.

A walk to remember
reveals the time-bound sentence
that will get eased
by heavy steam engines that grew up
to be used in songs of
distilled truth.

You can do no wrong
to savour the safety of a hidden voice
within layers of musicated poison.
It can't lead you wrong.
The path mostly leads to the pulpit.

A strained marriage
eventually birthed a vindicated fate
that would be tired of shouting its wisdom hoarse
if only I could hear.

Ears sighted the waves approaching
and signalled for the eye to receive them.
The nose lay out the red carpet
and the gust of wind was skinned alive.

More hairs stood on end
as the barbershop quartet brought their weapon closer.
The follicles did not know what hit them.
The hairs appreciated the independence from their colonial roots.