Written during the depression of the early 90's in a bedsit in SE London
37 Seymour Gardens
1
In the city there is a rundown bedsit,
where a man sits quietly alone.
On a patched filled sofa chair he
contemplates his surroundings,
of what has become his home.
Faded curtains that hang, clinging
by a random peg,
a wardrobe door left ajar, exposing
Its emptiness
2
His dirty boots stand like two wounded
soldiers in a corner,
soiled workclothes lie nearby.
Total indifference in this dismal room
reflect his unhappiness,
as he looks around in dismay.
While above afro music invades
his loneliness,
hammering on his walls of solitude.
A junkies party with a quest to
find oblivion,
fellow victims of societies
uncaring attitude
3
A shadow cast by a shade'less lamp
gives a strange feel to this place,
and helps to hide the peeling
orange wallpaper,
Which it seems to hold in a
twilight embrace.
And as the man observes the line on the wall,
that separates 'light from shade'
He realises that good and bad are
but one and the same......
Indifferent Gods to a hopeless case
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