The ghost of the man sits in the chair.
He is a compromise between life and death,
Bone thin and pale no one sees him, no one will,
Scratching at parchment, his lifelong work.
At the gates of his grief anguished words connect,
Sentences unsaid fight on pages,
Ink stains between his fingers, a concession
As he judges and reflects in hopelessness.
The candle burns low, such it is with life,
And shadows address the room like a mummers’ play
Their music the despair of the rookery
Creeping in from the Rats’ Castle to spend the night in misery.
And in the muddle and twists of life nothing is clear
Not anymore, when everything is sold to make room for ‘Madam Genievie’
Who sits on the table in her cheap petticoats of dreams,
Madness for the inferior people,
Reached, for a few pennies, at the bottom of an amber glass.
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