The man who sits in his room
A man sits in darkened room.
The room is bare.
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.
Old, large armchair in a putrid green.
It's occupant looks no better.
He wares a smoking cap.
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.
He is now forlorn.
Holding on to his empty house till fate finds his heart.
A sad soul indeed.
A man with,
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Origionally posted, by myself, here - http://www.bubblews.com/news/1848486-the-man-who-sits-in-his-room