The Faceless Bully In Whitechapel.

I had wanted to go home,

my day, not what I

had planned for myself,

had consisted of feeling the bitterness,

of remaining

in my bed with no radio

to soothe the soul,

instead it culminated

with being outside,

the soft sounds of Jonathan Walker fighting

in the cold

and the strength of wind

biting chunks of my resolve,

of the vestiges of my tormented will,

as the snarl came from behind me

thick and strong

but not to my face,

“Get the fuck out of that chair”;

he walked off quickly, the classic

bully, the unseen face of the tormentor.

I wanted to roll after him

but instead the bastard’s words

cut deep and instead of going

back with tail between my legs past

the crowds at the bus stop

in the shadow of the Royal Court,

instead it made me stubborn

and stay out longer,

the regret of my decision was to hurt

a little later.


Ian D. Hall 2016