(Note: This concludes our run of poetry by Paul Tristram. We hope to see more from him soon!–LA)

… when those mental Gallows shade the morning

greyer than the factory smoke of unfulfilled lives.

I saw an old man, shaking and sobbing

at the side of the street, one wrinkled hand

outstretched, downwards, at a Guillotine angle

… at the fresh, emotional roadkill there

“I told you that your ‘Heart’ would lead you here.”

Having a ‘Hole In Your Bucket’ is bad luck,

but, what’s more important is the… ‘Timing’.

“There’s only the ‘Cold Side’ of the Bed left!”

she screamed hysterically, again and again…

until everyone present ‘Frowned’ far too much,

and left her, to go and Learn how to better Manage

how to face their own internal Winter months alone.

You’re never selfish for Suffering,

unless you’re sharing it, trading ‘Ice’ for ‘Heat’

and draining the ‘Colour’ from another’s Welcome.

I never ‘Accept’ anything ‘Unpleasant’

… instead, I ‘Tolerate’ … like a Convict,

biding-his-time for the very first chance of Escape.

© Paul Tristram 2026