New Poem: The Graceful Degradation of Silas Calder

After months of work, S P Clark is delighted to bring you this new poem.

The Graceful Degradation of Silas Calder

S P Clark

The knife lay on the ground in a puddle of red,

reflecting the final thoughts that rushed through his head.

As he was fading away, his body crumpled on the floor,

his eyes open enough to see the light walk out through the door.

His story, dear reader, ended in this terrible way.

I begin at the end for the vision haunts me every day.

So now let me start at the start and try my best to explain,

how a story with such promise ended with unbearable pain.

Silas Calder was known to all for his vigour; his zest for life,

his upbeat disposition and the easy way he travelled both joy and strife.

The spring in his step, the jaunt in his smile, and the kindness in his heart,

led all to remark you couldn’t see where the daylight finished or where Silas Calder did start.

Music was the background hum that brightened his every thought;

the beat of the drum, the guitar strum, and every vinyl he bought

gave his life a great rhythm, a positive note,

an uplifting melody keeping his boat afloat.

His outlook allowed him to revel in things big or small,

the tiniest flower, the world greatest tree, the crack in the wall;

the feel of winter rain absorbed straight to his soul,

his inner sunshine made diamonds from the blackest of coal.

Silas Calder inhaled literature as though it were air;

from Dahl to Kafka, Kipling, Christie, Voltaire.

The pages transport him and broaden his dreams,

his hopes are kept taut with neatly stitched seams.

One day something had changed; water breached his vessel,

and into his music he could no longer nestle;

for him melody had lost its magic and grip.

Remember, a boat starts to sink from the tiniest drip.

Sometime after this, he quieted his ears;

Tunes started to play but they only brought tears.

The water had dampened his passionate flame,

the records still turned, but it was never the same.

Months later as Silas Calder was plodding along,

he lost observation; something was wrong.

The flowers weren’t dazzling nor was the coal,

and the crack in the wall became the crack in his soul.

Even the books on the shelf polluted his air;

from Dickens to Shelley, Shakespeare, Brontë, Molière.

His curiosity depleted, replaced with a frown;

what broadened his dreams are now meaningless nouns.

The effort it took to get back on his feet;

pretending to thrive but it’s all a deceit.

Faking it but not making it; this was his disguise;

no one else saw it with their ambivalent eyes.

Silas Calder was always surrounded by family and friends,

leading the pack; making plans with every message he’d send.

He was always the one keeping the gang together;

he was the anchor, the main stay, the tether.

When his pals came to dine for the evening,

he entertained wildly so no one was leaving.

There was always good food; such a spread on the table;

champagne and lobster, and steak was a staple.

Back in the times when music rang through his mind,

the sound of his laughter was never far behind.

His laugh came from his belly and sang from his core;

an infectious cackle to appeal and adore.

Then came the time when Silas Calder was trapped in his bed;

text messages and phone calls filled him with dread.

He now walked as a lone wolf away from the pack;

loosed from his moorings, untethered, he started to crack.

Now he dined solo, no one arrived,

eating in silence is how he survived.

He lost his taste for good flavour, the lobster stayed in its tank,

champagne became vodka; he drank and he drank.

The sound of his laughter seemed a lifetime away;

from his core came the crying, day after day.

Tears kept falling and he couldn’t say why.

He woke each morning to give living a try.

That’s what he did, he rose from his bed;

Silas Coulda answered one message to lift the dread.

Some crisps on the table, and one friend at the door;

an attempt to stop falling; crumbling through the floor.

With each step and each conversation,

he approached the joy with marked hesitation.

He tried to stay up but his knees buckled beneath him;

drowning in loneliness though he battled to swim.

The lamps in the house were switched off at the wall;

forgotten his purpose, a path he couldn’t recall.

He felt alone like the moon without constellations,

the stars in his eyes faded in his consolation.

Two years ago Silas Calder climbed the stairs with a smile;

he’d bound up to bed and dream for a while.

Soundly he slept, at peace with himself,

content with his life; friends, career and his wealth.

These were the times when he’d plan what to wear,

lay out his clothes, about his appearance he’d care.

He went to the gym, styled his hair and sprayed on cologne,

polished his shoes, always setting the tone.

When he was clothed in his full peacock feathers,

there wasn’t a storm clouding the weather.

He looked at the clock and always made plans,

To ensure that his future was with the right clans.

Silas Calder had hope in abundance,

no wish was too big, no dream in redundance.

He shot for the moon and wanted the Earth.

Silas Calder always aimed high, knowing his worth.

Now the stairs up to bed creak with despair;

looking for dreams but only nightmares are there.

His heart pumps fast and his breathing is short.

He feels like a fugitive who’s finally been caught.

He can’t turn to the mirror for fear it might judge;

he hates how he looks, he is holding a grudge.

The cologne bottle is empty, the gym membership lapsed;

no longer setting the tone, he’s completely collapsed.

Silas Calder see no point in looking ahead,

his life tapestry’s damaged and turning to threads;

the clock doesn’t move forward, it only counts down;

Silas Calder is the loneliest man in town.

The loss of hope is pungent and ripe in the air;

the stars and the Moon, they’re no longer there.

He used to want the Earth but now all he wants is a knife

to ensure that his present is out of this strife.

The knife lay on the ground in a puddle of red,

reflecting the final thoughts that rushed through his head.

As he was fading away, his body crumpled on the floor,

his eyes open enough to see the light walk out through the door.

Silas Calder is a name that has been invented

for a story of pain that could have been prevented.

This is where, dear reader, I thought my very own story would end,

but I followed the road, around each twist and bend.

I am much stronger, though still weakened by toil,

but I am now grateful to place my feet on the soil.

Unlike Silas Calder, I’m determined to fight,

to reach for the Moon and hold onto the light.

Within each cloud, a silver streak shines through.

I’m trying to change, to get out of the blue.

When the tide is strong and I’m barely afloat,

I find the material I need to rebuild my boat.

Silas Calder came from somewhere to give me a warning;

to work through the self loathing and see the next morning.

The road ahead will have bumps and choices to make;

Silas Calder broke down… but I’ll try not to break.

© S P Clark