Rusted

A long, drawn-out hike through the snow
Past the chemical works, around the resevoir.
Crunching boots and heavy steps forward
Brightened by the artificial beams
Directed mercilessly on the current shift
Stopping to look down at worn hands
Before pushing them up to rub his face,
Pulling them outwards ... firmly,
Stretching his skin so tight
Amost surgical, oriental eyes dragged
Then shut firmly and quickly
An accompaniment to the scream inside his head
And the thump, steadily caged within his chest.
The wind is strong and impossible at times
Dragging the landscape, thick in oils
Like a hurriedly painted scene

Sitting in the fresh, untouched snow
Beside the dumping canal
His only thoughts are his decisions
Only yes or no this time
His arse is wet and cold
His discomfort echoes his mind
He stares at the oil-slicked water
Black and white...do or don't
Mesmorised... trance
Hours and hours... cold ice
Numb (nearly), do it? He is scared
No, not today. Next time.
Digging a heal into the ground he pushes
Against nothing.. and falls
Clumsily into the waiting brine bath below
There is no decision now.

Melted and fine tuned into this, just this
A concentrated, pin-point of blinding light
Like the sun through a lens
His heart screams in a second, in the cold
Dissatisfaction and unrest punished rapidly
An old, rusted bed leg pierces his gut
His frozen, shocked body slides in smooth
Then staccato death rhythm
Pressed against the mesh of old frames
Where once a soft mattress cushioned wearyness
Harsh strands of hopelessness brand him, grid-like
Row upon row of neat little boxes
Columns of organised laceration
He has lived his tomorrows today
And his yesterdays are last year's news.


~Charlotte Sometimes (SRWB) aka Leccie 2010