Here he sits atop his ivory throne. Master.
Bent crooked on a pristine white towel, on
Pearlescent silk bedsheets. The light from the
Wraparound window streams out weakly;
A duller shade of white, but not quite grey. One
Front of this concrete cube that is now his own
And only his. Head down, hair dripping droplets of
Water, locking onto his bare legs, empty and lacking
Like a too-ripe peach. He had a job to do. Back
There, years past. The stripes do not adorn his
Chest now, but the scars always will. More tangibly and
True than any 'honour' that could be assigned.
Back bare, and still cowering. But now lost
In thought of thoughtlessness, of the unplayed
Steinway which forced itself into his living room;
Deep strings exploding more in silence than in noise.
How did he arrive at this position? It is a question
Which he asks himself, too. How did he gain
So much having fought from so little? Unread, ancient
Tomes adorn the shelves around him. A Kandinsky sits
Itself on the wall above his coco bolo desk, slightly askew;
Lines converging into blackness. Bullets into desert sands.
He can feel a storm coming, and you can see a glimmer of
Darkness from the last one lingering in his musky, walnut eyes.
Violent presence commands him upright; orders him to
Pull his trousers up, maggot, hoist them with a belt, strangle
His cuff together, button up his shirt like fitting .45s into
A magazine, ready to venture again, into this new
Persona, from one who has battled death and won,
Emerging reborn into this waste which he must call home.
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