Slipping in and out of discussing a conclusion with himself
Sitting by the waters edge cursing loudly those who condemn
He had a confession to make, but where to find a confidant?
Dead wood was what he referred to himself as
Nothing to smile about, deadpan that was his nickname
It followed him along the road of little hope
How was he to realise his dream
When he had not a dream to realise
He continued his search for assistance
Just continued walking down blind alleys
Each day the same ritual
Fix for breakfast, fix for lunch, fix for dinner
He recognised the meaning of all three
But lived on scraps
They were of his age, mid twenties
Grey figures of ageing men
Living the seasons in winter storms.
(c) Chris Black 2017.