By in Art

The man who sits in his room

A man sits in darkened room.
The room is bare.
Dusty floorboards.
Grubby, smutty stains.
They contain the smell of old cigar smoke,
Smoke from better times in this derelict house.
The large windows are almost as opaque as the walls which hold them.
Mold is strewn across the wooden frames.
As rotten as the battered red curtains which border them.
One chair.
Old, large armchair in a putrid green.
It's occupant looks no better.
He wares a smoking cap.
Once purple,
Now indecipherable.
White hair spews from underneath.
All about his face,
Wizened like a prune.
His eyes are closed to the world,
He does not see,
They are of little use anymore.
The clothes he wares where once grand.
A fine waste coat with an intricate pattern,
Yet it has not been washed in years.
The tears remain un-stitched.
His trousers a coated in dust,
A highlight of grey which almost compliments the original black.

This man's name?
No one knows.
He is simply a victim of some form.
Once grand,
He is now forlorn.
Holding on to his empty house till fate finds his heart.
A sad soul indeed.
A man with,
No name,
No sight,
No life.

Image created with -

Origionally posted, by myself, here -

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Tuffy06 wrote on August 18, 2014, 10:42 PM

This poem was well-written but it seems very sad though.

maxeen wrote on November 28, 2014, 6:22 PM

Haha! I thought I recognised that nice style ,lovely...(recognised you from bubbles)