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Keys rattle,
door slowly closes ...
An echo of footsteps walk upstairs..

You can hear his bedroom door close,
a little bump as he sits on his bed,
then there is just nothing..

They think he is angry,
raging at the world,
anti social, but at work he smiles,
jokes and shows a jovial side,
like a 'Pirate of the Caribbean'

but in his home he seems lost,
like a hollow house.

Nobody notices the scruffy hair,
nor the unshaved grisly stubble -
of a once debonair gentleman.

He once illuminated like a lighthouse, 
but now seems invisible,
with faint tears,
hidden behind 'Johnny Depp' eyes -
in shallow depths his spirit drowns.

His room is dark with a somber hue,
with misty windows and fading walls.
A scent of suffering like 'Edward Scissorhands.'
His mirror reflects agony of an unspoken soul,
resembling a faded photograph - he is a ghost.

He feels he is a 'dead man from hell,'
but paying for the sins of others -
when in reality his pride is crucifying
his conscious into realms of future regret.

In his theatre of solitude,
he is an anti-hero in his own mute madness,
where he feels safe - forgotten.
A place to breathe his last breath, 
which was reserved for his '
abandoned' butterfly beloved -
now lost in a storm.

Locked in the observatory of loneliness.
His glory is to remain a secret puzzle
in his silent story of suffering -
to decompose like an ageing painting -
forever abstract leaving the viewer pondering.

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