He sits and waits
for
springs to arrive
and
winters to open
wrinkled and torn skin
The
years making way in his eyes
grey spirit knitting closer
This life can be so hideously inconsequential
when there's no more
singing
no more interlocking of
lips
no more
celebrations of oblivion
no more whispering "my love"
Reflecting from a corner
the
stillness outside
Not one motion
just the thunder
just
Yet at times
when it is impossibly late
where time
curves into the next morning
Northern winds visit
bringing back home to him
and he's struck
with a
violent need
to wake up, walk up, walk out into the night
and live