And  when  his  usefulness  had  gone.
They  just  cast  him  aside.
And  on  the  final  downhill.
He  began  to  slide.

Rejected  after  all  his  work.
Visions  now  all  gone.
He  knew  full  well  his  time  was  near.
He  knew  he  had  not  long.

As  an  old  man  disillusioned.
And  weary  from  his  fight.
He  spent  in  sad  remembrance.
His  final  lonely  night.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

From the rooftop
I see the houses sleeping in moonlight

(My chance ascent to the roof
for a space to be aloof
begets this poem)

I know this stillness is deceptive

behind the half glow neon panes
or the wooden ones shut tight from light
beyond the dumb walls of white
tears and smiles are flowing
also grunts of despair
moans of flesh upon flesh
stopping at the skin
or going far down to that misty spot
and even far past all them
two hearts holding the flame
of years buried on the bed
a child still in their head
or there but really not there
somewhere too wide to build a bridge

(Thirty minutes past nine
the toy houses in the moonlight shine
in their chambers holding life not seen)

And I atop one such house know
it's time to go down the stairs
to take up the script again
and write and act and write
for the length of night.

I'm so far inside myself
Starting to feel like someone else
Getting lost in the dreams
Of the girl in mirror
That I can no longer see
She's beginning to scare me
And it seems like my mind
Is her favorite flavor of coffee
She drinks up my thoughts
And gets a rush of energy
All I can feel for her is envy
Yet, she's supposed to be inspiring
And me? I'm practically dying
Just waiting for the mood to strike
Finding the right music to surround me
It's tiring and
I've been living life so patiently
Feeling like
It's starting to get to me
Breaking the mirror inside my eyes
Does nothing
Neither does smoking out my mind
She just seems to soak it all in
Breathing in the fumes of my coffee
Giving me nothing but an empty space
And my face
Is just her face, minus the evil grin
I can't even begin
My muse is addicted
Trying to get her on the mend
Find the fix she needs
So this beginning
Doesn't start with the end

I go back to that place

Through the green door
Enter the red brick house

Mikhu is still the little fairy
My eyes look for
And still my shyness
Forces me to look away
In her mother's presence

In the faraway attic
She furtively cooks me a meal
We make love
That brush our skin faintly

When I come out
She stands at the green door

Then upon the here
She is no more