The crying of Simon.


His bedroom door a tombstone for the room that lay inside and hidden there away from sight,light years of light sat in the dust.
The wardrobe old and oaken,spoke of hanging,
haranguing coats of cowhide skin and trousers that crept up like weeds within.

No party times for Simon Lime a product of a bygone age,faded pencil on a faded page, he stumbled and deep down in the rage that simmered far below, he would know,
who sent the clocks that dismantled him,
that wound him up,
that bound him in the past?

Held tight and fast,though tired at last he settled down upon the old stuffed chair,where the antimacassar kept the oil, slick on his thinning hair,
and here where shadows shuffled on the widow of his window sill he sits there still and,
thinking thoughts like these,praying in some long forgotten diocese where bishops wander ill at ease among the congregation.

Nations stand and fall among the shuffling shadows up on Simon’s wall he doesn’t care no more,
he carves the tombstone for another door
and life goes on.


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