This Man

When he was crying
I saw tears descend in sheets,
and hang like fledglings
in the curves below his cheek,
and animate some pain he knew
from long ago.
He struck a chord.
He mentioned still
how old he felt.

I never wondered how the
wounds that carved his dreams
tempered all he said and
how he viewed his past.
Or, if my music played the same
inside his brain. Or
did he still remain
a craving mystery;
a man in threads
intent alone on finding peace,
somewhere out there
amidst what was
his final grief.

I doubt I’ll ever have a chance
to see him free,
years from now
when all his youth
has burned away.
In days that transform
into years and centuries,
his passioned thirst
for life will be disguised.
Ideals bright with liberty,
will now become
a slowing agony,
of awakening defeat.

I only hold his photograph
for links to weave,
the fragile puzzle of this man’s
mortality.


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