in his darkest hour, alone;
only the slightest of movements
by his weary chest betrays
the unforgiving, harsh truth:
that he is still alive.
He breathes, he sits
in a pool of starlight, gently falling
through a solitary window. He is
curled up, knees held close,
huddling for warmth, denying
the murderous cold.
And the odd chill
passes as a lonely tear, thawing
quietly, shivers unsteadily by his
frosty right eye. The broken dawn
eases its way through the glass
like a thief.
The probing light
casts its criminal gaze as beams
resolve from the inky shadows.
It is an old house, broken-hearthed -
fireplace silenced, mantel memories
It is lost in time:
swirling, dusty rays pierce through
gaps between broken tiles, grasping,
fanning across the room, searching
as the morning sun strides across
the changing sky.
Now the afternoon
winds mock its geriatric frame, whistling
through cracks, shoving the old walls,
and as the supports sway a rope,
hanging, slices the beaming sunlight
like a demented knife.
There is pain
in the house; the man remains
still, seated alone by the setting sun
in the window, streaked by watery
tears. His empty eyes travel again
to the hanging rope.
Now it is his
darkest hour as the midnight chill
begins anew. The man is still
alive, still alive: his weary
eyes come to rest upon the old,