He is an old skeleton of a man.
Stranded somewhere in his sixties. Stubble tough as sandpaper. Stubble cement grey. His eyes bloodshot and ghosted like a man who has been taken over. He
whispers to himself.
He carries a bottle of wine haphazardly
under his arm right which spills as he tries to settle it. A cap sits
crookedly on his head. His short coat is dirtied by grease and sick
mess. His trousers hang loosely around his waist. By all accounts one
gone quite mad.
He walks stiffly
like a boy who has defecated in his trousers. This is
no simile; a sewage leak has stained through and dribbles down his
right leg. He mutters to himself.
This is a man who has been burned
of his wings and robbed of his halo. No Saints in this
city. The burden is yours alone. Stories of despair wait behind so many dank curtains.
At the junction he edges awkwardly round the
corner. We cross the road, walking farther into our lives and
further away from his; averting our eyes from the suns glare.
2 comments:
Good day to you, Colin. I discovered your blog a few years ago, and every once in a while I came back to see what was new. I'm not a poet myself, nor can I claim to be an expert in it, but I think your work is very good, better than most of the other stuff I see. There's an "aliveness" and a fresh originality to it. In this one, for example, the last paragraph is excellent.
Now that I've embarked on blogging myself, I thought I'd say hello and sign up to your feed. See you around :-)
Amazing to hear from you. I just noticed your comment. Encouraging to hear your words!
Good to know there is at least one reader our two out there.
Pleasure to hear from you Bobby!
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