By Tom Wand
He bathed in the quiet;
Scraped the noise from his skin,
Showered in silence.
Ate beans from the tin.
But his four walls were blurring.
Light outside was dim.
His family kept banging,
He wouldn’t let them in…
Soon all noise lost meaning,
Only silence spoke to him.
Peeled his fingers into a bucket:
Filled it to the brim.
Time of death nineteen twenty-three.
Poor sod, he let his demons win.