They hang; a heavy weightlessness, <br />like long forgotten memories <br />seeking renewal. The man sits, <br />beside the window, looking <br />at the clouds. Remembering. <br /> <br />But nothing quite fits. If only <br />he could pass, at will, into <br />insanity. That would remove <br />the purgatory – desiring flames <br />to quench the smouldering remnants <br /> <br />of a life. He sits, beside the window, <br />watching the clouds. And waiting; <br /> <br />waiting for night-fall. Remembering.<br /><br />Malcolm Evison<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-man-2/
