He lies here drooling on a beaten pillow as frost from a cold winters night collects on car windscreens in the street below,

His mind casts back to the horror of Summer and of all the things said and left unsaid,

When losing what he needs is all that he has and has ever had,

To then stand on the edge of Sea cliffs not knowing if the wind should change, not caring,

And still nobody could possibly understand nor bother to ask, or to accept,

To know he hardly cares about anyone except the republic inside his flesh and bone,

As his heart beats against an old mattress a racing mind turns to Hemingway and the beating hearts of dead and butchered Turtles near Cuban shores,

Oh how he feels sorry, guilty, innocent, and resentful all at the same time, 

Only to eventually fall asleep with sorrowful laughter echoing from somewhere deep inside an empty space. 



~G McK

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