Empty Crate in a Corner

A dusty room in bleak midwinter
played host to a splendid soiree of like minds
and like souls
sharing, and chatter,
and the tumble and clatter of glass
and aluminium as rosy-cheeked stumblers
bumbled through
tumblers and ash.

For three long days the dusty room grew
ashen and tacky with spilt beer and dropped baccy
and cider undrunk
by those, the merry
and rosy on white wine and perry
and as one gaggle departs they are replaced,
and in their place another face
rosy-cheeked and worn.

The eyes in the corner pierce and cut
and twist the tendons of my gut.

Until such time as God’s Day dawned,
and such as God did rest,
the gaggle yawned, and dressed
and made to leave one by one
leaving trails and surprises
comprising of dirt and the dried, stained
sticky residue of spilt liquids on
hardwood floor,
‘These invites I shall impart
no more.’

The eyes in the corner are turned and shut,
yet still twist the tendons of my gut.

‘Don’t sleep there it’s not for comfort,
besides, the chair is smothered in filth
from the weekend’s debauch,’ spoke I
soft caressing her hair.
And so she twists and smiles and takes my hand,
and eyes me full of sweet and light
and my fear is relinquished
in the soft, Sunday light.

The eyes in the corner are focused and up
and no longer twist the tendons of my gut.
Tendrils of auburn rest as roots to rot,
echoing barks of creaks of wood fade,
a warm, perfect soul encased in splendour,
a thief soul that steals from me all thoughts of aught,
of dreams of seas and waves and wrecks
of sands and time, of loss and own,
of the world. The world, as is to me.