life-life

In an instant, I slow to stare,
these markings here are oddly rare,
footprints running along the shore..
these steps I’ve tread from once before.

The mind wonders how that could be,
this world is one I’ve yet to see,
I search my thoughts for doubt or fear..
but the heart knows what brought me here.

Winds might mask what I try and say,
tides may wash all traces away,
but dear friends of life, kin to time..
this moment’s ours, please call it mine.

The light above the table dims
Amidst the dust it sways
With narrow eyes, they both sit poised
But time will tell who stays

It’s the same draw that sits them here
Different prices paid
Against this weight they stack their chips
A choice was hardly made

Too many kings reflect on queens
Contests they should have played
Without the nerve to call a bluff
Their chance at grandeur fades

Expression built this deck of cards
A hand unseen, still raised
Held so firmly against her chest
Vague edges have since frayed

He knows, and could not wager more
The utmost stakes are laid
Instinct, with time, will tell of hearts
For eyes, revealed just spades

If it’s ok I’ll just stay here
sitting, staring at the ground
can’t think of a better place to look
so I’ll just keep looking down

Do you mind if we just wait here
maybe just to be around
could we linger in this hapless search
pretend what’s lost might yet be found

Is it fine to just delay here
if we hardly make a sound
let heavy hearts hold words at bay
let sighs grow more profound

Would it be alright to just remain here
stay with this feeling that confounds
like something near and also far
like a silence that still resounds

Here we are, there you go..
blue eyes pierce the evening glow.

Here we are, there you go..
smiling like I’ve always known.

Here we are, there you go..
starting what we can’t control.

Here we are, there it goes..
gravity has taken hold.

Here we are, there it goes..
a fire burning through the mould.

Here we are, there it goes..
soaking wet, can’t feel the cold.

Alone a would be poet sits,
a stoic hand supports his chin.
Despite the more than ample light,
the world around seems dim.

A distant look adorns his face,
in his fingers a restless pen.
A gaze that strains beyond plain sight,
for where to start, or when.

What story is he yet to tell,
its true purpose hard to gauge.
So much vested in these empty sheets,
all his passion, his heartache, his rage.

Stranded amid this vacant verse,
caught in a moment, as before.
He knows it’s time to turn the page,
but in his heart, he yearns for more.

For how does one begin the end,
before wet ink sees light of day.
Which chapter draws us to a close,
have we said, all there is to say?