Fingers trembling from the traces of chill,
You left as you walk past hordes of anxious,
Faces, turning away avoiding your eyes that reflect fire,
Puffed with the previous night of solitude, they cry,
And glisten of ambiguity; is he weary or merely vindictive?
No one knows.
But He knows,
Does He not?
Treading your corridors, you leave them like lakes,
Frozen over winter, slippery, white, and bluish even,
Everybody slithering at your feet, their knees bruised,
And bleeding, you remain unmoved, unconvincingly
Unaware, the line is long sir—yet you continue to freeze.
I imagine you at nights on a king size bed yet,
That mass of yours its only occupant and some bugs,
Carbon monoxide, Nicotine probably, and say,
A trajectory of discharged man juice out of desperation,
Or out of the call of your testosterone nature?
It matters not. But you are alone, sir!
Such a pitiful life, I imagine you to have and only
A decade left ‘til you reach the half-life, not a Muse in sight,
When times call for it, when the television dictates that,
Once in a while you need a pair of breasts to fondle,
That you need someone to fill the spaces of your arms,
Of your hands, of your empty stomach, of your heart,
Other than blood that goes in and out, like an unfulfilling,
Fling. I doubt, sir, that you have heard that song, about
A father and son; didn’t daddy tell you anything?
Just relax, take it easy.
Look at me, I am old but I’m happy.
‘Turn the world upside down, Daddy-o,
And welcome to Mine.’
He walks in the room.
Everything but one lady with flowing black hair,
Golden brown skin from last summer’s beach trip,
A slight curve forming on her lips,
It’s his turn to stand idly,