Details |
Paul F Clayton Poem
The man with the plastic face
He has cloudy, liquid eyes
His fibre moustache and the thick dense fog
Strengthen his disguise
As he stops to check the time
His circuits start to glow
Then a figure comes to greet him
With a face he used to know
It's a face in a leather case
It's a face he used to own
It's a face that moved through time and space
And now he's come to take it home
There was a subtle smell of sulphur
As he made time stand still
He unclenched his plastic hand
To expose a yellow pill
Then his sub processor skipped
To where it all began
To a time before his micro chips
When he was still a man
Copyright © Paul F Clayton | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Paul F Clayton Poem
I can hear voices
Voices from the past
But, only when I’m driving
When I’m driving fast
“It’s the wind”, said the doctor
“Or a breech in a seal”
“Go home and put your feet up”
“Or go out for a meal”
So, I took the doctor’s advice
And intended to go home
I buckled up my seatbelt
Switched off my mobile phone
Then I turned the ignition
This made the engine roar
But, as I started driving
The voices came once more
I could hear the voices
Couldn’t tell what they were saying
So, I put my foot down
The car started swaying
Suddenly, I hear them clearly
These voices from the past
They say “climb up from the wreckage”
“And join us at long last”
Copyright © Paul F Clayton | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Paul F Clayton Poem
In his final moments
He clutched his sheet in fear
Staring at the wallpaper
He knows his time is near
The unshaded lightbulb
The dust around the room
Black mould in the windowsill
Adding to the gloom
Loved ones stand around him
For their tearful last goodbyes
Forever shall be without him
But he cannot reason why
His thoughts now are desperate
And nothing shall they gain
But to toy with logic, reason
Might help to ease the pain
The universe for him
Is not beyond the sky
For when his time expires
His universe will die
He recalls a varnished box
And now his fears somehow subside
It was stored in an upstairs cupboard
Where he sometimes used to hide
The distinctive smell of varnish
The rusty broken locks
Tins of enamel paint
Occupy the box
Time seems at a standstill
As he revisits his past
A time once thought forgotten
He prays this time to last
He opens up the fusty box
To take a look inside
His father’s name inside the lid
Consumed is he with pride
His loved ones weep with sorrow
As he walks his final mile
His body still and lifeless
He exits with a smile
Copyright © Paul F Clayton | Year Posted 2013
|