Condensation (Poetry)

There are faces at the window —
pressing in —
old thoughts come not to comfort
but to gloat —
‘Not long now...’ they whisper
in their drizzling
thin voices that dampen — slowly soak
the message through.

Their runny eyes on me
seem pitying
but there is neither threat nor kindness
in those stares
they mouth — sneer — float wet
obscenities —
cloud after cloud of doubt
chills the air.

The morning spills its ghosts —
a uniformity
of grey — no glimmer through the drab
consciousness
while time — my time — is plodding on
I recognise odd words —
the faint warning dirge —
its tired rhythms

sullen as a disillusioned tide
back and forth
across an inland sea
of ‘nothing new’
the voices sigh and moan
spit out
elemental atoms — a cold telling
truth — of sorts.

Light lies dull upon the mirror’s
ruthless glass
peeling back the silver
skin to dark
absences — the gasp between
each breath
longer — life condenses — clings
fine as mist.