Shelves of books
For intellect
Heaps of clothes
For dignity
The knowledge is worthless
The linen is stained
Starved for weeks in squalor and filth
None of your tongues matter now
I am traced in the sun
He lives through his son
Feeding from an abscess in the wall
Lungs filling
Corroding the door frame
Drowning in fire and spires of blood
Fighting for a last breath of grey air
Wading the grief leaving a wake
One last portrait of my stained face
I want to watch it go down in flames
It's long overdue
30 long years I waited
For it to smoulder
And the last trace of warmth will leave the soil
You took the sun with you when you left