Tuesday, 29 January 2013


Dull, dull sapphires
in beds of wrinkles set,
No more mortal sights beheld,
No catch for visions net.
Wisp of white thatch splayed,
Askance, cosmetic still,
Half hides gathering rust
of once iron will.
Mouth of million silent words,
Jaw set ever now,
Guarding useless windpipe, dry,
Propping furrowed brow.
Strumming fingers silent, set,
Limbs and torso slack,
Face-gaze permanent and grey
Vein juice, red to black.
A myriad of thoughts and dreams
petrified in mass,
Turning, changing, solid now
then liquid, soon to gas.
A tiny mound of massive life,
Lost droplet on lifes foam,
They came for him at sunset,
Grandads going home.