Cold Silver

Sitting on my crimson chair, a ruby-laden cathedra

I watch the clouds gather and the rain fall heavily,

It’s starting to rain more frequently now,

My house is filled with much splendour

Priceless porcelain, the colour of bones, can be found

In every room. And also –

Did you hear that? Well, I’m sure it was nothing

I recently bought a most imposing grandfather clock,

Every second of every minute of every hour of every day

It slowly ticks closer and closer to –

There it is, that sound again. It sounded like; no, it can’t be,

There is a blemish in my abode,

In the bathroom there is most grotesque mould

Blackest spots scale the almond-white walls

And no pristine chemical can mask it. In fact I think –

I hear it again; it gets louder and louder every time,

It is a cry of anguish, from children, women and men

Hungry for bread, cold and crying in the bitter night –

Oh I did it! I stole and exploited them

Even those who loved me, who were kind to me, who saved me

For just dead riches and the coldest money, no good comes from it.

Oh Heavenly Father, forgive me for my sins, for am I a wretched man

Thou can save me from the darkest torture of that raging inferno

I lie down in my cold house, a fitting tomb.

 

By Mark Sforza

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