There is a timid storm
On the unfeeling airwaves
I am the furniture
That lines petty stairways
There is a furious calm
That pacifies the antique
But I lack the intelligence
To be unique.
It is you,
In the hallway,
That heavy oaken scent
Which fills a confused corridor
With echoes, with lament.
Ambiance tears asunder,
A weakened personality.
So I ask who’s turn it is
…To make the tea?
He writes not for an audience
But for himself.
The flicker of the lamplight,
Upon the turrets of obscure allusions
He loses a hasty glance towards the ego
And it ages his soul.
The lonely room;
Co-authoring this melodrama.
Lays a gentle hand on his beard,
Despondent at the lack of support,
There is rarely support nowadays anyway.
In the bizarre night,
He calls it a day.
And packs his things away.
All the utensils of a domestic performer -
Back into the draw you go.
As he sips much needed coffee,
And reflects upon the meeting of the eve,
Of a weary winter he could not, would not, conceive.
