Onto some road I imagined as I sat,
perhaps a little sunlight, more or less a dash every now and then,
there strolled a man; a stroll sounds too fancy as I gazed at him.
His shoulders had no strength to be the pillars for someone.
Corners of his eyes were decorated with wrinkles,
as old as he once loved the woollen jacket he wore,
when his darling grinned.
More of what I can recall is his voice, as it strained
and strived to wriggle past through the thorns
that emerged from inside his throat. Beautifully distressed,
by what I heard in the words as he sang.
Some sorrow, thicker than vines I pushed behind
to catch a glimpse of him on a stump.
His words? Oh, it was his reverie, but
I wondered what did I do to have the harrowing tunes
bequeathed to me. Love as a word from his chapped lips
stabbed my chest, where I believed I could hold the
feeling, good as new. Smile, as he sang the word,
broke my rib, or rummaged through my mind
tearing into the flesh to see if I knew, truly knew
what it meant.
I tried to buck the torture that called black clouds to hover
above me. Those knew too well into becoming an obstruction,
and dragged me away the very second I placed my finger
on the doorknob.
The man turned around, coerced a halved smile and murmured,
“It is after all what an aching soul sees.”