The craven wakes.
It is alive with narrow insect grace
And hung with trailing cobwebs,
Swathed in shadows red and brown.
Its scalp is silvered down
And pocked with craters nape to crest;
The craven cracks a rigid stance
A sideways glance
And twitching muscles break the skin of dust.
Wet limpid eyes absorb the calculated gloom -
The cluttered claustrophobia of that morphine-scented room;
A spastic jolt - a helpless wasted cry
A moment of collective silent-mouthed insanity
A sad hand flutters open like a flower.
A sour taste;
Lack of blood inside an unfamiliar face.
Long fingers trace the lines of unknown years.
A stark solidity of truth; a dreadful revelation
A cloying yellow smile hangs like a joke
A laugh begets a croak.
A human starts to choke.
The craven sleeps.
Slumped in a peaceful sprawl upon its chair
Clutching a point made moot by modern logic like a prayer.