Life's Predispositions


In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
red, yellow, green
and blue.
He sits in there,
a chapel for one,
in a mist
of confusion,
in a mess,
searching for answers,
as his life is waning,
escaping,
like an Autumn wind
blowing the pages of his life
... stillness,
of bookmarks,
still on page one,
he hatched, once.
All around him,
dark,
and cold,
like a winter chill,
snow banks withdrawing,
his sad existence.
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
large,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
another rainbow stretching
it's arcs for him.
He backs away.
He bemoans life,
small,
it's endowments on him.
His parent's mistake
on a dark, eerie
loveless night...
and their cutting words
"You were a mistake,"
words
that grew on him,
like barnacles
clinging to him,
eating away his buoyancy,
like a ship sinking.
In the birth of another spring,
flowers blossoms,
rivers gushing down
mountains and mountains
of pollination,
life,
he has a lone branch
waiting ... somewhere.
Such stillness.
Such stigmatization
from his parents
loveless past.
A mistake they conceded.
It had an effect on him,
darker than the blackest sheep
that he was.
What predispositions.
When the summer harvests
arrive,
fields smiling their wares,
he scowled
he scowled the corn,
subsistence,
life,
the changing seasons,
his short change
of life.
Rainbows.
Why are the birds
singing to me?
Why?
The voices
in his head
chirping,
continuing.
What message thou
bring to an orphan?
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
His eyes squint.
Dad, mom.
And whispers words
that don't need
to be said,
closure.


Logan Robertson

6/01/17