Last sunset

I feel the burning pain sear in to my tender flesh,
As I turn,
Out of instinct more than inquisition,
Warm flowing sensation,
Nagging at the back of my mind,
A warm drizzle wets my shirt and back,
Though still elusive,
Leg buckles for no reason I know,
Steadying myself to turn and see,
Mind floats,
Body swims,
Life slows to half speed,
Still can’t think,
Back wetter and now a dribble rolls,
Light flickers in street lamps,
Felling so tired,
Lower body numbs,
A creeping feeling devoid of any sensation, Encroaches from the souls of feet and upward,
Deep cold sets in to my body,
And on a barmiest of August nights,
The sun dips behind the tenement blocks we call a skyline, Its splendour undiminished by grey concrete,
Gold and orange,
Red and yellow,
All at once forgetting where I am,
Least of all what I’m doing,
As my pirouette completes with inertia,
More than muscular control,
A face not known to me,
Grinning wide eyed,
Yet with lack of expression,
Eyes blank and scream at me in insanity’s grip,
Saliva covers his lips and chin,
One string escapes and drools from his mouth,
And snaps with a deafening silent crack,
I watch its progress pavement bound,
My eyes caught by another glint down and to my left, Silver and reflecting the suns last dance across the sky, But it accentuates the red and seems to melt, Then it dawns in my last dusk,
All factors put together, Multiplied and arranged in to easy order, Who is this man I ask,
As consciousness start to waver, Sirens in the distance wail,
Are they for me?
And in my final moment of clarity,
As life swims back for one last swan song, A comment to be remembered by,
A girl I recognise screams hysterically, And then I’m gone,
Towards the bright light I float,
And still not aware of what has just passed.

This is one of those poems I have no experience of, I have never been stabbed, and although my scared face may shout football hooligan, it was drunken misadventure rather than singing at an opposing fan, “Come and have a go if you think your hard enough”                                    Not saying on a Saturday afternoon down at Loftus Road cheering on QPR FC, I have not chanted that, and some worse. It just tribal behaviour.

Its funny re-reading this one to post today, how my use of words has changed, and have added and changed a few parts. When I wrote this one, I had less self loathing and hate to throw on to a page. I had been spurned on by a book deal, I should have read the small print. This is part of my second collection of 50 poems, “Me, myself and Jack” It has sat in the bedside cabinate untouched since I printed it off, disalusiomed with human nature, and there propensity for greed, at all costs.

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