Put a lot of time into this one. Still not amazing, but I'm happy with it.
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Insidious, embittered, mocked and despised;
All words Mr. Hampstead wore with pride.
Primary school Maths is where he was relegated;
A pillar once tall, crumbled and worn,
Hunched in the teacher’s lounge, wrinkled and scorn -
At the young and hopeful, his eyes stare fixed.
Fresh from the cabbage patch! Wet behind the ears!
Wait until you break, I’ll relish in the tears!
Back to class and the buggers are late,
Preparing what’s prepared, forced to wait;
Shuffle the papers, ready the board, check the pens.
The first of the rabble enter in hysterics, laughing and screaming -
About something or other, the words they blurted held no meaning,
The day’s hardly started, and Mr. Hampstead’s tired. So very tired.
I may as well be the Latin teacher for all this lot care.
Speaking another language, no love for the knowledge that I’m willing to share.
One payed attention, sitting separate and mute.
A girl who listened and drank in his words.
If I get through to one, will that prove my worth?
So fair and dainty with eyes that beamed, her gaze emanated like a fire from a hearth.
Have I seen her in the past? That face is so familiar.
Yes. I remember now.
Squalid and dank, was the home in which he resided,
When the moon took stage, he began the ritual before bed;
With slithers of amber flowing down his neck,
A picture lovingly framed, clutched in calloused fingers;
A picture of her, a ghost that still lingers.
Milky pale, peppered with freckles, eyes like sapphires and chocolate flowing hair.
Were you not taken from me, dear Rosemary, my heart might not wither;
At least you can’t see my wrinkles! Ha! They seem carved by a river!
A toss and a turn, the creak of the bed,
Face to face, she turned white to red;
Blood running free, her eyes glossed over.
Staring in horror, mouth hung agape;
With a coat of sweat and a crow-like scream, Mr. Hampstead did awake.
Upright and alone, the teacher sat; accompanied by the thump! of the wind against his door.
What are these visions that haunt me so? Of death and nothingness,
Have I fallen so far from grace? Trudging through this cumbersome, endlessness.
Back in the class, to reality he returned.
Her gaze cutting deep; freezing him in place.
A spitting image of Rosemary, I realise at last;
Maybe it’s just a wicked phantom, come to taunt me like nightmares past.
I cannot stay here any longer.
The students japes followed him out the room,
They teased he’d gone mad, an old man returning to his tomb.
His head felt heavy, like a lead weight had replaced his fragile mind;
Dragging him to the ground, knees groaning, ankles burning.
Crawling to the door, reaching for the handle he slowly began turning.
A sweet breeze he sought, a reprieve from the poisoned air of insults and mockery.
Shut up! SHUT UP! Stop this tirade of insults!
A breath for a moment is all I ask, a little is tired is all, it’s not my fault!
The light hit Mr. Hampstead’s face as the door opened a crack,
Breathing in deep, he decided against turning back.
Parked across the road, his car stood, rusty and unloved;
Making a beeline for the vehicle, keys rattled like deaths sombre knell,
A crowd gathered behind, to witness a mans descent into his own hell.
A reflection caught in the car window, Hampstead stood face to face with himself.
Is this how I will be remembered? Insidious, embittered, mocked and despised?
No. These are not things that I wear with pride.
‘Are you okay, Mr. Hampstead? Why did you leave?’
Standing dead centre in the road, the cause of his despair.
‘I never wanted to leave you, you left me’
‘I saw you buried, you’re just a slab in the cemetery’
Why does she look scared? Have I become so ugly?
A diesel growl shook the silence, as a metal beast careened down the tarmac,
The driver a spectre of death, the devils minion, an eldritch horror encased in black;
In its path lay the girl, frozen like a doe in the headlights, legs quivering in the face of a monster.
Mr. Hampstead saw it all unfold, the driver had lost control, wrestled from him by an unseen force,
No time to think, his mind was made; to sacrifice himself was the only course.
With what fervour was left from his more youthful days, he threw aside her body in place of his own.
I won’t see you die twice, Rosemary, I should have gone with you -- maybe now we can meet again;
On the sunburnt shores of Brighton’s summer, or in the fields of daisies that chimed with the hymns of a wren.
The world spun as he flew through the air, streaks of colour blurred his sight;
Blots of ink bleeding through the dimming sky, corrupting the clouds and blocking the light.
Falling like a hammer from the sky, a ditch caught his body as he heard something crack.
In distorted angles he lay, crimson fingers caressed his cheeks, as a visage appeared from the dark;
‘You know I missed you, Richard, but we’re together now; you’ve done your part,
You won’t be remembered as insidious, embittered, mocked and despised; but as the sweet man you are.’
‘I’ve sh-shown m-my worth? T-they don’t m-mock me a-a-anymore?
Okay t-then, Rosemary, let’s go. This body is s-starting to feel a l-l-little s-sore, Ha…’
YOU ARE READING
The Boney King Of Nowhere
Poesia"There's always a siren, singing you to shipwreck." A collection of my poetry. Hope you enjoy.
