Still-life – The Human Anvil

There is coffee on the table
Cold now, the lips upon the rim
Have been long lost to the streets
Those open arteries
Spilling into the city
There is no one in the room
Only me and the carpet
Flickering lights
Turning white walls brown,
Distorted frames;
Assurance of a happy life, frugal,
Each grain of pleasure
Weighed against the pain
Every smile practiced
Symmetrical, same
I walk barefoot
Across the room
Wet slippers make sound,
And gaze through the window
At the miniscule ground:
The life in transit
Amusement for free
As I am for the one
Now watching me.

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Published by grumpygorman

I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...

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