Ghosts of future and past

Here I sit 2047,
Eighty years young,
Senile, dribbling and stinking of piss,
A faded second-hand chair coming away at the seams, Gravy splashes and greasy mark,
Help to frame a picture of a more sorry sight,
Lost and away in memories,
All I have left to show for four score years,
No one visits or calls,
All bridges burnt long before,
Like an army in retreat no way back,
My life ends as it began,
In a troubled council flat,
On a troubled estate,
In fear I would live,
If my possessions were of any value,
To anyone but me,
The only gold I posses are my golden memories of better times, Arthritis burns my hands,
Fading eyes making my reminisentses brighter,
Behind my eyes is where I now exist,

But this is many years from now,
Only half way along my journey,
This view doesn’t have to be,
Or is it set and waiting for me to arrive,
Can I change this ending to my existence?
Am I my own script writer?
My days of womanising and drinking,
In full swing as I sit here and type,
But I don’t always cause the hurt,
I have been hurt,
And have lost not always thrown,
My woman is out there waiting somewhere,
Of that i’m sure,
My reward and pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,
But as with the horizon it remains elusive,
Will I make the same mistakes when I catch her?
In triumph of catching the rare and beautiful butterfly, Will I display her? Killing her,
To loose her,
Or will I let her fly free in confidence of her return to me, Filling my life with colour and warmth,
But for now I look for that special sign,
Leading me to her vibrance,
Leading me to her light,
But as daylight fades on another January day,
I sit and slumber,
Ghostly images haunt my sleeping hours, Haunted by that chair,
Mahogany legs hanging from its green mass, Chasing me through my sleep,
In chilling shades of grey I now dream,
All the colours bled away,
Living in a perpetual winter,
By then it will be too late,
No life left to share,
Where are you,
Rescue me from this nightmare,
Help me let it never be,
Never be me,
My turn will come,
Of that i’m sure.

This poem has a rather odd story. A friend of mine at this hotel where I met the assistant manageress, Dave, a poem “my mate Dave” ,will be posted next up. Anyway when I met the assistant manager, I was already seeing another woman, its not big, its not clever, but there was a week in which I had to make a choice, and the assistant manager had told me she would have me, in the end. Shortly after this conversation my mate Dave, bloody good chef, told me if I didnt stick with my other girlfriend and chose the assistant manager, I would end up alone on a green arm chair, like the one the hotel provided me with, covered in gravy stains and stinking of piss, and every chef knows with he poor rate of pay, a council flat is where he will more than likely end his days, you may think of those celebrity chefs and their luxury life style, that is less than 1% of 1% of the total number of chef employed in this country. Behind them is a million under paid and over worked drones doing as they are told for less than their bus fare home. Plus, Daves girlfriend even threatened to dob me in also.

I chose young, foot loose and fancy free, wrong. Maybe I would have come to my senses sooner with a woman closer to my age, rather than a 23 year old. Maybe, but I was still young (ish), dumb (most definitely) and although trying to perform for two, still full of cum, full of fun and nights out, more wild oats to sow before I hung up my libido and called my house ‘dunromin’, and I had a mate promise to beat me to death if I ever mentioned marriage again. It is also worth noting that I had no desire to live past 40 and maybe the fact I am now 51 is just one if Gods pranks. However, I have come close on a couple of occasions.

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