Saturday, 8 November 2014
New Poem: Ceiling
After she died, he lay in bed looking up at the
ceiling. He heard a shuffling sound, the
movement of paper over paper, books falling.
A continuous sound. Relentless. The ceiling
trembled and bulged. At the sides, where it
met the walls, the ceiling inched downwards.
It juddered. He lay in the bed watching it getting
nearer. He knew it was the weight of the papers
and books that was forcing the ceiling down.
Nothing could stop it. He could have got out.
He could have escaped. He didn’t. He waited.
He knew the ceiling wouldn’t stop. He knew
he couldn’t stop it.