He was tall and pale. Unnoticable.
Blending in with the white wall.
His steps made no sound, no stories.
He had no shawdows to hold in thrall.
He had no dirt on his shirt
Or on his concield spirit
His fists never clanched in fire.
Nor traits of hurt or desire.
The man without the face
Sat down, silently, infront of me.
Had no words to form, his breath was dry
I felt frozen, yet squeezed a smile.
How are you? I asked, but knew it’s pointless.
This man is no more, from the inside out.
Breathing frame only, that expired
Under the weight of his final bout.
We sat there, what seemed life forever
in the nurturing embrace of still.
Surrandering to the pain of nothing
snakelike motion, drowning chill.
Our time is stale and tasteless
And yet, somewhere inside my gut.
My wisdom is guiding me to stay
For a glimps of life or a vein to be cut.
Like an abrupt haertbeat on a straight line
a vague wrinkle formed next to his mouth
Hello you! Welcoming him,careful and shy.
The man with the wrinkle, a tear in his eye.
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