Fruit of Wonderment

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.”