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Cold Arms.
The sun rises,
needle in arm,
no-one realises,
face in palm,
he’s alone.
Drips of spit,
‘a life of style’,
his charm and wit,
have left his smile.
Unconscious groan.
He wakes from death,
another day,
the thought of Beth,
leads the way.
Grabs his phone.
He makes the call,
with impatience,
paces the hall,
the need is blatant.
Hears the tone.
A fit of rage,
takes control,
the collateral damage,
his stereo.
Falls to prone.
A torn down calendar,
catches an eye,
through the massacre,
he starts to cry,
a sobbing moan.
The day is marked,
December twenty-fifth,
emotions sparked,
sharp as a scythe.
He’s on his own.
He take a needle,
taps it twice,
needs to treadle,
thoughts of life.
He turns to stone.
A Christmas dinner,
the church would say,
for a sinner,
gone astray.
His safety zone.
