The Inconsolable Mr. Pompwell

a poem I liked…

Lydia's Train of Thought

The Inconsolable Mr. Pompwell

No tears, no tissues, nothing at all
No desolate widow, no grieving children,
Comfortless, pointless, meaningless

He sat at his window staring out over the sea,
with the dark clouds only accents to his mood.
Finally alone but hollow with success, he stood,
changing the view to the rocky cliff-side

Solitude, isolation, silence,
Creaking floor boards, cresting waves,
Empty, stripped, a void

He ate mechanically, with out any enthusiasm.
When the door bell rang he ignored it,
moving like a ghost, drifting from room to room,
extinguishing each light and locking the windows.

Weary, tired, worn,
Naked to the waist, narcotics in hand,
Dispirited, somber, wasted

He lay in his bed awake, waiting,
for what he wasn’t sure, the pills, the pain.
As he slept, his face wet with tears,
he heard the whispers of what once was.

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