He bends slowly,
Kneels, with the grace of earlier years
Lost behind him,
Shuffles to the floor,
No longer shy
Of the days that he has seen,
Crosses himself with fingers
Worn to the bone,
Withered skin wrinkled
The scars of things
No-one else could know,
And thoughts turn
Like a ferris wheel grown old,
Rusted at the elbow,
Tired now of reaching up
And grasping only the disappointment
Of the crash,
Tearing at the sky
And feeding only the salted sea
With tears that dropped like feathers,
Waiting for the page to turn,
The wish to turn to truth,
The voice to speak his name,
He bends and sinks,
Half composed, half falling,
To the floor,
Hopes that his movements have been seen,
Been captured in the eyes
Of someone he cannot see,
And not slipped, unnoticed,
Between fingers grown arthritic
Through abandonment and regret,
He crosses himself again,
Head bowed,
Brought low by the burdens
Of those he had known,
Wishing now that his words would be heard,
That time would don its darkened cloak
And slip between the frame,
The doorway he had left ajar,
And wield its sharpened blade,
He bends slowly,
Kneels and crosses himself,
And sighs.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018
