poems

The Angry Man

The Angry Man.
25/11/14

The angry man’s thumb is bleeding.
He fears it not, the pain a mute sensation.
Stood on a beach, alone, a cactus in his hand.
Protected in a white ceramic pot. His knuckles white with clasping.
Seeking beyond the nothingness that is everywhere.
Pushing the visions of childhood drama into boxes,
he kicks the sand sending another demon into a growing wave.
Enslaved by a mind he attempts to control.

The angry man’s finger is bleeding.
He fears it not, the pain a mute sensation.
A heartbeat, his own ignored, heard with a minor panic as lost loves rise and are pushed down again once more.
Unable to let them go, the emptiness echoes as the waves break.
Memories etched deep into his soul.

The angry man’s lips are bleeding.
He fears it not, the pain a mute sensation.
Enslaved by a mind he attempts to control.
Memories etched deep into his soul.
He gives up and kisses the cactus pricking his lips once more.
Then he throws it deep into the ocean.

Copyright G.P Williamson 2014-11-26

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