The gray days grow out of the gloom
that follows those drear deliberations,
the tearful commiserations, the heart
rent and bled in penitential soul purging.
He has no view where this sorrow drains
to or when pain will wither away; each day
is the same rendering of the day before
in an unending colourless succession.
There is no-where and no-one he cares
meet in the emptiness he shares with a
thin, bleached epithet of his once fat
and wholly populated past. He is the last
man standing – he greets the bleak
prospect of passing unsung, he tries
to find reason for dying, lies grievously
to his treasonous will to survive.
© 4 March 2007. I.D. Carswell
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