it is getting late
in the
day, I’ve been sitting
in the
same spot for the
past 6
hours, staring frozen out
of a
dirty ground floor window
watching the
people who live in
this flat
come and go, waiting
for something
to happen and now
the darkness
creeps in where there
was light
and I sit in
the dark
numbly staring, waiting for
something to
happen, I’m always waiting,
the angels
know where I live
but the
demons know my name

the hours escape me
slipping under the
door, down the sink
out of the
crack above the window
with the flush
of the toilet, in
a blink of
an eye, nothing for
them to hold
onto, nothing for them
to feed on

I lost months
treading on thin air
between the hairline cracks in the ceiling
and the loose floor boards

my gaze perpetual
absorbing everything
but remembering nothing
except the emptiness
the stillness and
the greyness of my life

had I been a canvass
lost in Paris in the
early twentieth century
Picasso may have painted
his greatest work on me

but I sat on a hard wooden chair
in 21st century Britain
looking out of a window
blank
and numb
just watching life pass me by