In the mirror he sits. Calm & withdrawn .
Another defeat cripples his face. The tears heavy with the ignominy of being alive.
His hate wells up.
He wanted success, he wanted joy!
Man calls back at the face that stares.
“Paine is the knife. The weapon that bleeds.
Look at your eyes and witness defeat.”
Boy shouts back & cries. “I breathe & I cry, I taste nothing but hate.”
Man holds him close.
“I cannot do anything. I am no good. I drive & I see no road.
The water that falls is the rain from my mind.
I enter the house & call out her name.
An echo sounds out & it’s then
Its then that I wish to die.
That I could sit & end it all. & no-one would miss me. No would care.
The house speaks of ghosts.
Of death that fell apart. Of lives destroyed.”
& breathes. Mist forms on the stolen mirror.
“How can we love?
So many defeats. I cannot cope. I am swamped by the deluge.
A broken mind which leaks. & floods.”
Both close their eyes.
“Maybe we should sleep.”
(c) Ed Simkins