Pressed up to a cold radiator,
The curtains drawn over the day
Brushing his back
And erasing the golden gloat,
'I am, I am.'
Their thick obscurity makes
It too dark for even
The most insidious of shadows,
They all died and bled
Into one dominating grey tombstone.
His hazy gaze falls roughly
Around the calendar left fallen
Under his paper-covered desk;
A burial under unread documents and ill-organised folders.
His hands crossing one over the other
Clutch the narrow fabric of the bed sheet,
Conducting the cold-metal shiver that performs
An ancient sacrificial doom dance in
Every segment of his unimpressive figure.
He's stuck to the radiator like it gave birth to him.
Every emotion emigrates around his face,
Competing for the quivering lips, the heavy eyebrows,
The daft colourings of his soft cheeks.
He wets the bed with clear tears,
Shed without ever knowing why,
Why cry, why me, why me?
The lonely closet of his life
Looks him gauntly in the eyes
Gaining their full illusive focus,
Because the skeleton just fell out.
And the cold radiator
Leaves him cold like the palm of a unheld hand.
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Comments about this poem (Corner Stone by Sandy Player )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(18 November 1939)
Edgar Albert Guest
(20 August 1881 - 5 August 1959)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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