A musing one year after the burial of S.H.
J.W. arrives, still oblivious to the SHadow
His Tomb's Friend
Silver lined the eyes of a man, the man at the lonely lozenge.
Those threads of tears were like the thinnest blankets in the cot of a wailing baby.
And the man did cry like a baby. Unashamedly, on nights when the silence- that abhorrent, monstrous mute of marvellous mouth- clenched around his heart and made it ache.
Not in front of anyone but 'he' would he shed his armour, his camouflage. For he felt safe with the highly functioning sociopath. Functioning no more.
But on this eve of buried grief, did the man inscribe his face with infant tears? No.
One solo sip of water for his chin did grace from those tempestuous eyes-
For anger had wrung him of his theatrics and over the perpetual papercuts he had bit into his heart some three hundred and sixty four days before- each stinging with the lemon-juice of life- he now drew his mourning blade with more efficient finesse-
And ensured the self-imagined dagger dabbed so deep into the blood of his antagonised aorta, so that it would wound but heal like stone-
And Man wished no more that his heavy, longing heart beat, but it did.
Meanwhilst he he mourned for stood, far off 'neath yonder tree-
his ticking ticker, too, pulsed petulantly-
(These two bosom buddies, two, have stubborn metronomes),
Spying and safeguarding his tomb's friend-
Our chicane martyr,
Mr Holmes.
