MEN WAYS.

The alcoves of the closet case’s room
Are filled with dust
Whilst in its hub there is
Accrued corrosiveness,
As liquid drips down from the roof,
And all the while
He never cares.

The light forms broken bars upon the far wall
As the painted window slats peel in the day;
He shifts onto his feet
And rearranges picture frames of shade
No longer there, yet still complete.
He’s got set time to spare,
As daily morning orbits of his gallery
Have no effect upon his diary,
Or on the calendar that lies beneath its pages,
Refusing flock acknowledgements.

The bedroom of the closet case’s house
Is full to burst
The little creatures living there
Survey the worst
That peoples’ emptiness can do,
And everywhere
Are all the photographs of you.

Some dishes gather moss upon a table top
As silken things take vine above their lot,
Yet he appreciates these things the most,
And rainbowed cutlery daily passed over
Is left to say why not;
Only here a spider and its flies
Know trials of life.
The leather couch he sits on now
Will never see a day of light again,
And longs for the sealed up coal fire to
Re-attend to its old needs.