All Roads Lead To Nowhere

Like tapered oak roots dissident deep,
Preferring an epoch,
Of consent before trial,
Before consumption taints,
A mired consideration,
He sprawls silence sleeping,

Aside a youthful inn,
Opposites of masculine,
Speculate his era,
Counting the rings of his belly,
Eyes devour damp interpretation,
Between the fag routine,

Not universally awake,
Or in his divan rag,
He waters himself,
From pint glasses gradually,
Like a lily or a fleeting crow,
It's a glass he doesn't own,

Lip cracks occupied,
With eager saliva,
Assorted then with the grit of the contents,
Mature the plant then watered,
Not up with vigour,
But across the bar,
With the folds of the obese,

A bathroom rupture,
Leads the lungs draining,
But not of gasp or wisdom,
Fundamental washing songs,
Held towering,
Yellow precision wedged,
In cusps at fingertips,

Home is the closing hour,
Feathered in the night air,
That chairs him rising with ease,
Hauling him to that highland parallel,
Where daybreak is but minutes away.

© Copyright 2006 Leigh Cole

Published in Chantileer Magazine Issue 17 - 2007