Birthday

Her eyes are wax like the birthday candles
that usher her into a year of trepidation.
Only full of light when they're first struck,
and smouldering with black smoke
as soon as the snuff comes.

It's all so easy when nothing matters.

The love has drained from her hands and her feet
as if she was totally bled dry,
and in the morning she won't remember
the moments of pure serenity or
the days of triumphant victory.

It's all so easy when nothing matters.

From the pits of her stomach she yearns
for the feeling of resolve and restoration.
A soul-cry that goes unanswered
because those ears certainly don't hear,
and those eyes certainly don't see.

It's all so easy when nothing matters.

Out-of-sight-out-of-mind
is a lie we feed our fearful hearts
and she's a glutton over the deception
that she buys in excess and bulk.
Her death is knocking steadily at the door. . .

It's all so easy when nothing matters.