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.