Darkness fell in through a lead-lined window,
he sat alone, his grey head held, firm in his hands,
at a paper strewn desk, amongst empty seats,
counting each breath as it came and went,
came and went, he ignored the telephone.
Darkness fell in to his heart and it was heavy,
sat alone, sinking, his heart a lead balloon
weighing down his forced smile at the sides.
Soon it would all be over; it came and went,
came and went. He answered the telephone.
A voice buzzed at him from the receiver, stinging
he held it away from his ear, sighed in soft defeat,
as it flapped at him angrily, landed a blow deep
and the man sobbed then, deep red and brazen,
a flood of rust he exhaled in to the telephone.
Sparks spat and zapped past his grey face
searing, spearing bolts of voltage scorched ears,
pink and blue blossoming burnt bruised flesh.
Spitting and gurgling, he reared back in his chair,
heft the laughing telephone back, and released it,
up, into a bust of King George III, clad in a toga,
that teetered on the brink, and then, dropped
and consciousness went, and came, and went
as pink and blue flowers rushed up from the floor.
