He's seen better days.
His long grey hair and beard
Give him and air of mystery, and theatre
But his clothes, torn and soiled,
Speak of the reality of his grubby life.
Alone and lonely, he has become submerged
In his grimy world, of cigarettes and booze,
Filth and decay.
He finds security in his collecting and hoarding of tit and tat.
An old fridge or cooker, a table or television,
It doesn't matter if it works, or if it is broken.
What matters is that it fills up his empty life and
And that now, it is his.
He told me of the days as a child,
In the East End of London, when he had naught.
Now he has cramped is life, is home,
With rubbish, but his rubbish.
And the irony is, that it cheats him of his comfort, his life,
It has taken the place of a bed to sleep in, or a chair to sit on.
He has become a prisoner of his squalor
It has become his addiction.
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