Knuckle Syntax
Written: September 24, 2026
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The house grows quiet, voices fade away,
Empty chairs wait guests who won't arrive.
The telephone robotic rings betray,
Silence that surrounds me, makes me strive.
My knuckles built up their own syntax,
Every joint and bone is mapped by ache.
A display of pills on the top of the tacks,
A week of tunnels and no house break.
Friends as stones I've gathered over the years,
Some polished smooth, others jagged, worn.
Doctor's waiting room now calms my fears,
No mantelpiece gatherings, no morn.
Feelings of loneliness are as thick as rain,
Its monotonous, never-ending of night.
I speak to screens, endure the loop again,
For comfort in the artificial light.
Yet dawn comes, the kitchen window stays,
Coffee still holds a flavor, rich and deep.
I'm still here counting on my numbered days,
Still someone's father, still the love to keep.
For children's names I'd memorize, their needs,
Through every darkness, through hardest falls.
The body is tired, but love still intercedes,
And life, though shaking, still recalls.
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