And he stands there.
Waits.
Left
bereft.
Disbelieving his dream
his
nightmare; blinks
blinks…thinks.
Thinks!
No tears; dry. Too dry    to try    to
cry.
Scratchy; hoarse
as his heart; beats.
Beats!
Bleats.
Empty             space.

Blank       bed.
Gone; no more – no
sight to see - no
words…
to speak.
Quiet.
Tranquil.
LOUD.
DEAFENING!

Head-splitting.

And he stands there.

©pofacedpoetry (2018) Billy Reynard-Bowness – all rights reserved