Sun red, sliding down the back of nowhere,
heralding the day
that never dies completely
but lingers on
Into the darkness of the night,
chimed by glass on bottle
and wearisome creaking of beds.

Long made,
and long forgotten, coffee stains
stare up from table,
floor, and counterpane,
stark markers of a life
passed long ago.

Troubled, transitory soul,
pausing, for a moment,
contemplating cracks
to ceiling, wall and life.
An ailing, restless void.
where blackness is not bleak enough
and sanity uncertain.
fearful that the saucepan
with its cold-scramble
might promise paradise to one so wise.

Squalor claims no paradise,
just fitful rest for feeble mind
clinging grimly through the night
and, by day, no more;
mere passing memories of iron bedstead,
broken washstand, baleful dreams;
waiting for an end
that never comes.