He is an old man,
More over,
He is a dying man.
Who once,
Long before
I am conceived
Straddled mountains,
Won over women,
And left his family for them.
Now he is straddled
Swallowed up
By the tiny expanse,
Of his hospital bed.
His breath drawn
Held tight like canvas
Under the arched cathedral
Of his ribs.
Trembling with
The pressure of a hundred voices
Trying to make physical
The blank howl
In which age
Has wrapped
His once sharp mind
Finally he is overcome and the eyes
Put fourth and paint huge voyages
Across the void of his cheeks
Until ashamed they hide,
In crumpled folds of skin.
No longer the master
Of his own body and space.
He is asked if he knows who I am
Fragile, tragic and human
He draws into himself and considers
“You are like us"
No comments:
Post a Comment