he leaves his
window open
so the rare
wind whistling by
through a dust-coloured
day; in a
dust-coloured cell
on a dust-coloured
treasure chest lie
his faded blue
attire, worn and
patched by gentler
days,
greyed gracefully
to dusty black;
new wrinkles
on his face
weigh him down;
a faded
treasure chest
stares at a cement
coloured wall
over his head,
and the lonely
voiceless mist,
blinding; hear it
call
to rusty,
dark and sunless
sky, reflected
in his eyes,
when a bright and
impish countenance
eclipses tired
sighs;
the tired rusty
treasure chest
five decades
hibernates,
to feel the stirring
light of grey,
to feel new
hope, awaits
the cold and
stinging storms
that pour, taste
salty youth again;
the dusty
yellow rain boots
melt, ecstatic
in the rain.
T. E. Pyrus
https://lampteacupoverthinking.wordpress.com/