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He draws the curtain open
His weary legs haul him over gravity's threshold
He sways, the water leaving through the drain with the rest of his will, his strength
He steps past his minds mistress
And crumples onto the floor
Gracefully, like an empty shirt folding down upon itself
His mind lies, his knees hurt
The cold tiles send shivers across his body
He begs for the heat, the sapping warmth
The penetrating cold reinvigorates its assault
No mercy for the wicked, the weak
Again he realizes how inadequate words are
The cold to him is like the slap of a parent, the sting left behind is the memory of failure
The warmth to him is like the lull of a siren, the dulled senses are the reward of failure

The writer draws the curtains on her pity stained eyes
She looks away, her job is to write, but here she has to endure his pain
She reaches out a tentative hand, blind to his turmoil
Speaks her words, they wash over him like a comforting breeze
His wet body shivers, the breeze envelopes him like the hug of a thorn bush
She looks at his casing, lumped against the tiles, 
Flesh seeking pores within the ceramic to ooze into

He drapes his eyelids over his archaic eyes
His fragmented eyes reflect the light inwards
His gluttonous eyelids hoarding his secrets away from the world
But he can still see, he cannot tell, but he can see
The raging torrents within this house of flesh
The denizens of his crumbling fortress seek the solitude of a final desperate act
The smoke of the furnace suffocating them, always
They seek a full lung, unclouded air, enough to satisfy every pore of his tired body
He sighs, an attempt to seduce the turmoil,
The chaos abides, his eyelids drag their mass upwards

And so his fragmented eyes look away,
The furnace of his mind hires mindless drones,
He drapes a towel over his cold folds,
His lady smoothes the seams of her skirt,
Closes her laptop,
And his reality locks the rusting iron gates within shut,
He dries himself,
Walks over to his room, the cold touching him in unwelcome places
He puts on his layers of fabrics over the folds of his flesh,
Beneath them the iron gates help the world pretend,
Pretend that the words are wolves with fangs, that the turmoil is held at bay
But the presence of the iron gates, the warm clothes, the seductive words does not lie

The philosopher shoulders his burden, and prays the next shower will be more merciful
The philosopher shoulders his burden, and pretends that his shriveled form can brace the 
weight

© Samir Georges 2009
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