Bachelor

Bachelor

Quiet time
the clock strikes three.

Feet up
on the table,
not polite, he knows
no-one’s watching;
alone
he sees the ceiling stain
in a different light;
candle’s belly dance
explodes with flare
in his wine
sepia tinted lines
discolour the walls
where he believes
deception crawls,
shadow-clawing its way
up into the lair
under the roof
where the branches scrape
like fangs of steel
over
iron tongues.

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