He no longer needs the future or the past,
like a sinking ship no longer needs its mast.
His poor room had put up with men like him before,
empty bottles on its table and a noose on it's door,
he was alone and marginalised, an imperfect design
limping out of contention in a lifelong climb.
we'll comfortably blame the booze for his death,
and he will perhaps blame us with his final breath.
but before that room he'd already died in lieu,
haunting the streets and begging for money from you
At Forbes shelter they seem to get a lot of these,
falling apples kept out of sight from the trees.
A fall from the bottom never ceases flight,
a descent from the plateua of something,
to the ether of nothing.
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