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.
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