The Old Man

The Old Man

 

They hang; a heavy weightlessness,
like long forgotten memories
seeking renewal. The man sits,
beside the window, looking
at the clouds. Remembering.

 
But nothing quite fits. If only
he could pass, at will, into
insanity. That would remove
the purgatory – desiring flames
to quench the smouldering remnants

 
of a life. He sits, beside the window,
watching the clouds. And waiting;

 
waiting for night-fall. Remembering.

 

 

Malcolm Evison

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