Anguish

There was a door that I came through,
in a yellow-coloured house with overhanging leaves.

To twist around in the backseat of the car
and wave goodbye, with one arm constricted,
was more difficult than I had thought.

And there were sea-green red seas drowning me on either side,
as chariots of guilt raced ahead,
straining muscles of desire and pride.

It was easier to pretend, that those dark rooms of sweat and silence,
had never existed.
Never had touched cob-webbed crevices,
dusting out particles of pleasure and anguish.
Closing doors and windows,
burning coconut shells, smoking up anger and shame,
to drive away the night insects.