This shell is scarred with age.
Priced, pocketed,
Creased and cracked.
The mark of true armour.
The random pigments, the faded follicles,
As full stops, across many long chapters.
Hands that once held tight to hope,
Once reaching for pencil,
Brush and plectrum,
Are now grasping at chance once more.

Feet uncertain, growing dependable
And carrying that persistent shell.
They trembled in the exhausted mile,
Screaming alarm and panic,
Yet ventured forth, to mysterious worlds.
Legs that stood as great pillars.
While they, them, she... slept safe
In the same swaying cradle of arms.

They, his best portfolio of work,
Watched over by eyes, with lines that fork
And arc ever downward,
Revealing the placement of historic smiles.
Those eyes, yes, those eyes.
They once shone far brighter,
Darting in search of mischief, too often found.

The mind was quicker, sharper.
Never cornered, ever vigilant
Of the exits, quick escapes.
Seeing possibilities as vacancy signs,
Buzzing over every venture,
Neon and electric,
Wired and impossibly colourful,
Every endeavour,
Any ambition of art and love.
Behind those younger eyes...
There was never a door
That was free from the prising.

And now

As the vast, wordly machine,
Plots its persistent, loud workings
On the coming rotation,
This mind finds itself at a cold truth.
That point, where words
Need to be rewritten,
Where the headlands
Accept the violent ocean,
And the scenery seems too familiar,
In even the most foreign land...
There the pen is laid down last,
Still, across the page,
Lid firmly capped,
And a capricious mind
Lending fog to the world.
So, it passes that now
These unsteady hands
Feel for hidden shapes in the dark.
For a switch, an enlightenment.
Or sweet, merciful .


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