Tom's body slumps

In his allocated chair

Which, over the years,

Had cradled many a bony backside.

His the latest in the queue

Of the soon to be forgotten.

 

His resigned expression

Hides a mind

Energised by the memory of

Childhood battles on imaginary castle walls,

Wooden swords and shields,

Of slaying the enemy,

Saving the realm

And returning home a hero.

 

His energy wanes

As he recalls the

Disdain and rebuke

That met him when,

Across the hallowed meal table,

He told his parents of

His triumphant day,

A wasted lifetime ago.

 

It was the start, he now knows,

Of his lifelong tendency

To keep secret

His thoughts and deeds,

A trait that many would later mistake

As conceit or guile.

 

Too late now

To care

Or repair

Or forgive.

 

The clock strikes four,

Fifteen minutes to go before the

Latest cocktail of pills

That will prolong his torture,

Twenty minutes before the arrival

Of the cup of piss disguised as tea.

Such are the present-day battles of Tom,

Hero of the castle walls.