This is my favourite poem of any days I have had in the past, I assure you Ray I will happily post any poem(s) on any future day(s) that I may feel are my favourite on that day...
Thank you for taking the time to create a thread that all can participate in...mighty kind of you...albeit without a delete button
It is written by: Mike the Engineer
And so it began. Running wild,
homeless and bereft of belongings,
came the wild-eyed strangeró
no, strange man. No stranger
to the best of us, not a man
hasnít felt that blind running.
The wild eyes captured all.
Framed by the rest of his face,
by those greasy curls, sweat-laden
and seeming to tremble with hopeless
energy even as they flewó
a thousand trails to his eyes.
Those two black holes, pulling in
everything but giving nothing.
Bounding, stumbling, flinging himself
those eyes became still as the world
careened wildly about them.
We watched him go. Shook heads, slowly
creaked back into gear, pitied the man
with nothing going for him but speed.
Speeding towards nothing, speeding
from everything, just ragged breaths
and a thousand old ghosts.
They introduced us on my first day.
It felt like I was shaking hands with
one of the vises on the workbench,
for all the character he showed.
Stitched to his cigarette,
bolted to his bottles, sliding along
slotted tracks in the floor. Monotony,
repetition, firmly within the bounds
of his comfort zone, that monkís black cell.
Just diamond-plate skin,
hydraulic muscles, carbon veins
and that black hole inside.
Things crush a man. The daily grind
curls his hands, the brightest star
in the galaxy implodes, darkens,
leaves that permanent sucking void
inside his chest, tearing him down
from the inside, Gothic abutments razed.
No wonder he died of a heart attack.
The tight dull pain in his chest
was just worse than usual that day.
They figure he sighed, took two aspirin
and a shot of whiskey, put on his hat,
and shuffled bent into oblivion.
The waif lies dying in her bed.
She smiles, taut lips drawn back
to show teeth more bone-white
than what already shines through
the papery skin of her bald head.
I watch with silent eyes across the room.
The doctor asks questions.
She answers with stitches
wrapped tight around the voidó
but it threatens to break free,
to burst through the oilcloth
sheís woven around it. It will
wash her frail self away in the maelstrom,
sucking her into that pitiless black hole.
Each day stitches burst,
and sheís all but lost the battle to keep
the nothingness from overwhelming her.
Stitch-stitch, snap-burst, replace.
You can see the panic shining through the calm,
as clear as her skull. Sheís translucent,
transparent. The doctor hesitates,
broaches a subject with such concern
she can grasp onto it, a lifeline thrown
as the black hole breaks free underneath.