Behind The Blinds

 

 

     The pictures came down -

pulling webs at every corner,

     an avalanche of dust and mite,

a spiders coffin or two as well that brought

the home to life.

 

     The frailty – mans sounds of

self comfort began to echo and taken aback,

     he made effort to cease his solemn warble,

     ‘he hated the pity!’

 

     The chair, the table left via

the front door of their own accord -

as the window blinds expressed

the only sun scorch in the room.

 

     Empty now,

                   only for the deep pile rug

he never made love upon with his finest;

     he stood there looking down at matted

     spent misses where missing was

the life he always wanted share.

 

     The suns rays caught the skipping mites

and dust of a decade now disturbed,

     a flake of skin fell from his patchwork

scalp, then a lash, a tear – then a flood as

he dropped his soul and substance

     to his knees,

 

     he placed his head upon

the rug as self-comfort tones turned

him tragedy,

 

     “I miss you!”

                    he screamed as he

clutched the shag-pile in his gnarled fingers -

as tight as the day he died,- the sobs

violent and beyond a meter of man.

 

     Crouched in anguish,

the Sun beating a retreat beyond the mite

and bedlams brutal dust, a key turned

an ancient lock – the dropping levers

     a crushing overture,

     no more the man loved – and sobbing;

neither too, the Doves.

 

Michael J Waite. 15th June 2022.