A Poem Inspired by Karen Campbell's Artwork
To Make Clocks of Men
Jingles like hammers when they’re bells at the doors
Wishing for nothing whence they cry evermore
We’ve ticked and we’ve tocked, till we dry’d up our heads
And we’ve lied to our mothers while we’ve laid in our beds
The imagery of ladders will be our staple tomorrow
Can’t question their direction, mustn’t question our sorrow
There’s that fly on the wall lacking wings on its back
And I’m here on the ground with my two legs intact
Doors have been closed since doors have existed
And I’m just wondering why this hasn’t been resisted
She’s taken showers in the water he’s pissed in
So, it’s not romantic, that we’re standing in mist, then [?]
The bells that are screaming are the worst sound of all
For they mark in hour-glass periods the fall of us all
http://www.sabragallery.com/kcampbell_5st.phtml
Above link: Connects you to a taste of her artwork.