He removed his towel from the wooden chair
He stood and stared at the impassive metaphor
He shed a tear; he shared its inert nature
Outside his window, life was carrying on as he broke down
Twenty three years built towards this anticlimax

He picked himself up off the floor
He stood and stared at the white bedroom door
He noticed how scuffed the white paint was becoming
Another metaphor; another symbol; another blow to his heart
Twenty three years lived only to fall apart

He stared at the blood coating his wrist
He smelt the blood, he felt the pain; he saw her face
The axiom of his life is that it is his fault
Outside his room his spirit walked down the passage
Twenty three years lived to end at the beginning


About notjeffery

Out the box but stuck... View all posts by notjeffery

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