Tom Bell Poet Bio

Dying House/Cold Death

"It's cold, it's dark
My room, my soul
Little hairy feet
Scurry above me

The phone is dead
No bill was paid
My soul...
Is tatooed
There is no word to say...

There is no one
to listen.....anyway

I chuckle to myself...
Maddly...
I speak to those
long dead
I trust that they can hear me...
No way to know...

A cup of coffee...
sounds so good...
I sip my glass 
of wine

My heart palpitates
with lonely
memories as my wife...
I tilt my head,
I scratch my crown...
Is this to be my life?

The black forest
of despair
Surrounds my cold cold bed
I scratch my head
I sigh in pain
I sip my glass of wine

Better to be dead, I thought
But uncertainty holds me here...
What does it mean...
to me??.....

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