Once a day , you could say
she escaped from the jail .
At the gate , she would wait
and then bring in the mail .
Back inside , where she’d hide ,
the way she really felt .
Who’s to blame in a game
where cards are badly dealt .
French perfumes , extra rooms for all her designer clothes .
Home duties , foot poofies ,
the midday TV shows.
Polished floors , louvre doors ,
a touch slightly surreal .
Silken sheets , old antiques ,
a whiter shade of pale .
Chiffoniers , chandeliers ,
everything in its place .
Just like her , its unfair ,
the fears she had to face .
It was sad , all she had
was empty untrue .
Love was gone , she stayed on ,
with things that no one new.
Angry screams , broken dreams ,
in a beautiful jail .
Doing time , for a crime
and marriage posted bail .
Black bruises , blown fuses ,
in the end had its toll .
She broke free and then she
kissed goodbye to it all .
By Paul McCann
