His pain rang out like cymbals

being thrown against the bricks of the house

he tirelessly built

on a foundation of mistrust

and gravel.

 

His mouth moved, voiceless

a cry for assistance

in the bleakness of civil strife,

words uttered in empty rooms

crowded with the faces of people he’d lost.

 

His hand reached for a glass,

a woman, a door, a place

he knew felt like heaven on earth,

 

a place where he finally felt safe

 

from the screaming

and ice cold glare

of the television, as it flickered

and muttered

in the background.

 

A colourful silence

in which he was engrossed,

 

to drown out the din.

 

 

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