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Poem

The old man rises from his chair,
Gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones,
When he wasn't looking.

His slippered feet, scuff the carpet,
Making a journey they know without him,
To the window.

He watches down on the cars,
As they flash through the rain on an urgent journey,
Somewhere.

Leaning forward to rest his forehead,
On the cool damp pane that shields him from it all,
His prison wall.

The cars seem to softly merge,
As fragments of memory like a broken mirror,
Tease and torment.

A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows,
That somehow became painful yesterdays,
Much to fast.

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed,
He remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek,
A perfect imperfection.

The laughter and cries of children,
Running to him with chocolate smeared mouths,
Grown now, gone now.

All of them to different worlds,
Ones where he was to afraid to travel to,
Out there.

Plenty of time to make it through,
But the nights seemed to skip the sunshine days,
Protecting him.

From things others would do,
As they had done so easily many times before,
It hurt.

The clock on the mantle ticks,
Seconds, minutes, days, years a lifetime,
Sentenced.

He shuffles back to the chair,
Lowers himself with aching limbs that cant be his,
Removes his slippers.

Reaches for the polished shoes,
Years old but hardly worn and still uncreased,
Laces them.

Moves slowly through the house,
Turning of lights, collecting a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, a photograph,
Pocketing them.

The old man stands at the open door,
Just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks,
Into the rain.

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