Still seemingly docile,
granite walls and teak chairs fake
the tranquility of untroubled waters;
of serenity
and the stability of steadiness


mirror hanging on the wall reveals eyes
glassed, hastened

shuffles in his warm seat,
nomadic emotions cold and unfriendly;
the confusion that replicates
the tangled disarray in his mind and

winces as the button on his back pocket punctuates
a little stroke on his seat,
and notices the many snakes of lines present,
dark and settled with time, on
the same chair.

We have after all,
a heart that lusts after monotony.
Or perhaps just a glimpse?

One foot in the grave
still becomes the victor of sorts in
quests, such as these….
he consoles himself.

Remembers his little voice.. against the
the shouting and the screaming
of the people in stone suits. Such boring suits that fail to hide
the cruelty
that greet his freak show
of grit teeth and intrepid breaths.

His cold, moist eyes.
These – pointed into the conflicting
disposition of the mourn-shackled,
bereaved soul.

Tries to assure himself with the thought that all is over,
and the relief of home is but an hour away, possibly even half!
But there is the fear, creeping still
softly up nervous chills that line the back,
a fear lodged deep in the sinews of consciousness
and unconsciousness;
a bone lodged in his trachea,
an irritation that suffocates but denies him the relief of death….

There is solace to be found,
under covers of solitude, there is
comfort to be found in the stoicism
of seclusion.
Mind takes to flight and leaves
body to the cramps of desperation….

These undeniable doors of un-forgiveness,
These lying threats of terror,
judgmental critics that shatter all
All but the straightjacket of paranoia.

Better naught than ever had I anything,
he says.

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