Withering

( painting by Remigiusz Dobrowolski )

I am sitting in my worn cane chair

at my grainy raw timber desk

facing this window of lost youth

hoping to glimpse the scenery

before the dusk sinking into the night.

My hair is wiry and thin

salt and pepper without the spice.

My trembling, scaly hands raising to my skull.

My strawly fingers running along the scrawny sockets

to the elongated pointed nose

to the cold shrivaled lips.

They are the same track your hands and lips travelled.

Your faces are haunting me outside the window,

one by one, your faces of disappointment, hatred, wailing, brokenhearted, unforgiving…

playing screen by screen as the scenery of

my only connection to the outside world.

Here I am, in confinement

where I confessed all my wrongdoings, misbehaving, betrayals, poisonous venom.

I repaid all these with my youth, my solitary, my self inflicted torment

until I become a bag of bones, dust to dust, ashes to ashes…

Published by

Cassa Bassa

🇦🇺🇨🇳 inquisitive, observant, witty, a thinker, was a misfit child 😊

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