Thursday, 29 March 2012

The Old Man at the Pub

And the Old Man
sat decrepit
slouched in his chair.

With a burnt out fag
perched delicately between his lips.

For any murmur now he spoke
smelt heavily of whiskey and cigarettes

and when he spoke he seemed to purr over the room
candle like wisps of language
That groaned with an age old scent of antiquity and longing
much like that of unfulfillment

but as he spoke the cigarette
remained still

His eyes sparkled and were different
to mine though

They looked foreign to his body
Like jewel encrusted Orbs
That mirrored in reflection the opposite to what was in front of it

And as his stories animated the Autumnal screen
of opaque and cigarette burnt film,
That he used as a frame to separate his life
from any other

We drank to his younger years
and his failing liver

he was a good bloke

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