The beginning of
The slow decline
The faceless face
Of father time
The invisible pain
In tightened knots
Doubts uncertainty
Endless loss.
Alone in crisis
An uncaring day
Head in hands
A price to pay
All before
Now to seem
A nightmare dressed
In rolled up sleeves.
A battered chair
A wooden soul
Hardened like
The nails that hold
Depression falls
The darkening cloud
The silent scream
That pines and howls.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: March 28th, 2026 02:32
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Good write N. Is that someone who they got a chair for them to sit on as they took so long standing around waiting for the No.7 bus, and 'fell to pieces'?! lol.
you would need an armchair and flask and sandwiches waiting for no 7 lol
I love the way that you have woven this poem not only from a faithfulness to the painting but its apparent emotion as well and threads of other paintings the scream by Munch. In good rhyme you do justice to this work. A fave
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