Bean Bag

Humped and limp…
In a dishevel, in anguish
Drained of spirit…
And awash in sorrow

In the room not manned…
On a linty, sooty floor…
Tossed in a corner…
the dark, webby nook…

Musty smelling, and stagnant…
With single dingy, sickening
amber light. Tilted on the wall,
casting lanky murky shadows…

The windows, covered up
like a trembling bride…none
of the day, or the sun, making
through the ragged parches

Having been through,
many brilliant gaily mornings…
evenings of colors, and carnal
steamy nights…

Swinging through life, like
dancing in a fair…flaunting
tricks, and games… and romancing
with fate, again, and again.

In the days gone,
when the hide was soft.
The brilliant leather gleamed,
and invited tender touch.

Thence, starts the wintery evening.
In the gory nook, sent.
Now, creaky and splinting…
dungy, and losing form…

Looking over the curved sides…
eying for another day. All ears,
for shuffling perhaps, on the
soiled floor…

Humped and limp…
In a dishevel, in anguish
Drained of spirit…
And awash in sorrow.

The beanbag sits.
irked, and
hoping. Dribbling and
nodding in slumber.



2nd Nov 07