His Doc Martens stared back at him from an old tea
chest marked East India Company.
A wary apprehension settled onthe burly skinhead gazing at his past
buried amongst his chain and cherished possessions.
The weary passage of time had left its mark. The stainless steel chain showed some signs of corrosion even though it was folded in the deep blue pockets of his denim jacket .
All his memories awaiting the return of an other era lost in the arms of yesterdays battles in the dingy London backstreets.
Streets scarred and marked to this day where his blood flowed in rivulets of anger; soaking the concrete with the indifference of violent confrontations in a sacrifice to his manhood.
He recollected and the enemies of his youth and he inhaled his memories as if they were a gift from the war gods of ancient times beckoning him to don his armour and engage in a final battle .
He even thought it over as his seventy year old hand lifted the chain from its resting place He shed a tear as he caressed the steel weapon which had slain his enemies.
That weapon was worth its weight in gold and had left hundreds of bodies on the battlefields of his youth. Instinctively a guttural cry roared from his throat-
Gerrrrruuuuuuppppp ye bastards! ' as he wielded the chain one final time. One last beautiful time before his heart packed in leaving him slumped on the old tea chest.
A silence settled upon the scene of his final resting place in the shadow of the East India Company.
An old skinhead had sung his swan song.
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Weird Reads
PoetryPoems & Prose to read when your coffee is on the brew. A mixture of the light and dark in life. Strange writing from the pen of a weird mind. Caution advised before reading.
