A constellation of broken threads
A heart-wrenching chord of misery
Stretches from the headboard of his bed
Silent, supple, slippery.
And the spiders, millions of fingers on the harp
A deathly song on its rims play
A spooky spectacle that reigns in the dark
A dreary drama that's dispelled by the day.
And shimmer does its outline in the moonlight
A lustful, dancing snake that raises its hood
Upon the innocent man of sixty lying
Engulfed in the flames of his own firewood.
And as the chords of spine-chilling agony strike
Mounting a delicate crescendo
His haggard heart, already scalded white
Can no longer their burden hold.
Flutter open the eyes bloodshot,
And frantic, dart about the corners of the room
Glistening with the remains of the havoc wrought
By the malicious maids of the moon.
The clock ticks, and yet his time stands unmoved
The windows have their blinds tightly drawn;
And the fan hangs still, and tries to elude
The whiff of cool air that announces the dawn.
And he closes his eyes in dreadful reminiscence
A trembling hand upon the headboard resting,
And on his walking stick himself steadies
The residual strength of his legs testing;
Alas! They give away with a sickening crunch
And he plops back upon the bed; his eyes
Lustrous with a wave of salty drops
That should've been shed when shedding was wise;
For now all that was to be done is done;
He's lost what he'd lost and he's killed what he'd killed
And as his face lights up in a crescent of the Sun
His frail body convulses in a statue rigid.
The green veins freeze, the red eyes doze
And oh, he falls into a slumber
His lips kiss each other in the ultimate close,
Oh, could they ever get any dumber?
Yea, he passes away, an old, old man
Wrapped in the coffin of his own choices
Clutching his throat, dear Destiny's hand
Singing to him in familiar voices.
Voices that tell him he should've listened to them
Voices that rebuke his lowly soul
Voices he knows at last were telling the truth
Voices that can't help him anymore.
And woe thus betode, the soul who forgoed,
His peace and for material wealth
Chose to dwell on the deserted road
Bordered by memories and cobwebs.
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Salt And Ink
Poetry(#1 in Poetry 14th November 2015- 14th December 2015) (5th in What's Hot- Poetry, 20th January 2016) Cover picture- grunge (WeHeartIt) "Prepared thus to close, he raised his knife, Death came later; he was stabbed by life." When my ballpoint buckles...
