Landscape, silhouettes, a tear, a chin

Landscape, silhouettes, a tear, a chin Buried in wrists. A mute shop window. A glass, a couple of drops and the clatter of pans. With a weary mind he's clung to the picture. It drew in whatever was left of what A second ago had gone down in the glass. His stomach aches. He waits for the No-Spa to kick in. And clenches his right hand tight in his pocket. He thinks he has lost it all, never to return. She left, won't come back. It seemed like forever. The reckoning came, but three times the size. He didn't know blind carelessness was to blame. Why these sketches of rhyming lines, Why pin it all on the ache in the kidneys, Then again, let him do as he likes, till he grinds the whole heart down, into a chest, and hangs a little lock. An unbridled scrawl smears the page with blots, And the page, baring letters, cackles and gloats. A tangle of nerves softly mutters its thoughts Without pause-commas, interjections or dots It's seething way too hot