Wildes Writing

by Tim Wildes

He wakes up that morning

in a pool of his own urine.

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Falling up from his bed,

he fights off his soiled clothes.

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He notices now the throb in his skull

and his body’s reluctance to move.

There, naked, he collapses.

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He wakes in the mid-afternoon

already exhausted of his body’s incessant ache.

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Throwing away his clothes and sheets,

he admires the rot of the wood on his deck,

thusly slighted unto the gravel.

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He makes himself coffee,

this reminds him of his mother,

who always made it best.

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Looking around himself, he sees the fallout of his quarters:

a full and stinking sink,

piles of stained letters,

and his berazen library.

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In bitter curiosity, he sifts through the second-hand tomes.

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These are nothing to him, he remembers,

only sepulchres of which laid him ruin.

A waste.

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He leaves for a walk.

Albeit against his body’s fortitude,

the walk is preferable to his mind’s ruminations.

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He disappointedly walks the unfamiliar streets.

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He’s lost now,

brought to a clearing bordered by black woods and a stream.

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Here, his boots and glasses are taken off.

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And become of the brush,

he is forgotten.