How drunk he sounds
As his raucous bellow
Echoes across the courtyard.
Never one to hold his tongue
He shouts at the wind
That in his drunken stupor
Has once again
Blown off his foolish hat.

Another time, long ago
He was a different man
Holding all things dear and close
Yet fate, that most fickle lady
Saw fit to take that from him
That was most precious
And now he does battle
He does battle with the very elements
For there is nothing left – but sorrow.

And when he looks in a mirror
He sees the horror
Of that which he has become
And he sees – me.

©Joe Wilson – The mirror image…2018