Christmas at the Home

(This is still very much a work in progress. i think i need at least one more stanza to cap things off, and maybe i need to find a way to reduce the amount of adjectives; i'm not quite sure. I'd appreciate any feedback, especially about the last stanza which I'm not really sure about yet)

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The torches in grandfather’s eyes dimmed relentlessly,

A wind passed them and they were straining

to keep lit in this purgatory of stale-piss and soft crying

where two dozen rubble souls in their restless sleep

are reduced to Sisyphean moans and useless sighing.

Dad told me to shut the window lest I let the gale in.

.

Cameron wearing his paper crown and plaid garments

has long since ceased to ken his kin,

Yet in between gulps of unseasoned chicken and stony hard peas,

He casts the brass band a glance of acknowledgement.

“East Anglia’s finest, so the carers tell me”,

Dad said jovially, as if he were not wholly worn thin.

.

We lob obligatory questions towards empty ears

as the wailing from the telly room

intrudes upon the gaps between music, a shrieking staccato;

A childlike naivety had replaced the fear,

Duly severing the rotten remnants of imago

then for memory to stow away and keep it entombed.

.

The chubby trombonist sweats profusely in the heat

of the yellowing radiator,

But Cameron sits unaffected by its stifling emission

basking instead in the thickness of his bed sheets,

Still draped around him as if the dawn were an omission

from the day, time calcified by uncaring creators.

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