Photo by Steph Lord-Wetherington

Sitting by the window,
brittle and frail,
going through the motions,
but, has lost his original flair.

Analogous to a tired wave,
operating from dawn to dusk,
gazing at blue skies, twiddling his thumb.
Without warning sirens and flashing red lights,
feisty youth turned into wrinkled nights.
Days into years,
a few were held on tight and a few begged to disappear.
Time held its promise, a promise of constant flow,
to pass on alright, not too fast and not too slow.
The signs were there, in his own reflection,
but he didn’t halt to decipher, for in his days, mirrors were an infection.
Retrospection now, is such a waste,
but he does it anyway.
How much worse can it be?
He’s lived it once, what’s in the hazed kaleidoscopic memory.
Fusing the dots, the shards, the freckles,
amused and terrified with the spectacles.
Asking the “what-ifs” and answering in “may-be(s)”.
Figuring out those inflection points and toggling with alternative remedies.
At last, exhausted with all the reminiscing,
he sighs out aloud and throws his hand up in the air.
Promises to try again another time, maybe even another life,
and falls deep asleep in the chair.