the old man

The wind here blows so cold, I think I tell the man, “this wind feels much too cold” He glares at me he scolds, “your feeble skin is barely weathered, wait until the season dies before you start to cry” he sighs ashamed that I’m not strong enough to walk behind his blistered feet my whole spine crumbles, my limbs are sagging, dripping like honey so slow and so sticky, so sweet the man looks back, he sneers, he rolls his eyes around in their sockets “the crack in the foundation, splinter in my skin” he questions my sin and it all feels like a dream, serene, yet something dreary and mean a floating mist of dissolving consequences, inhibitions, silly wishes and contradictions. He walks away, laughs a bit, and tells me that I oughta quit. I bite my tongue and let him speak, so weak, I trudge through wastelands I’ve known, my home, the places I used to grow. He keeps on walking, talking to himself. I push through, in a way I never knew I could. To make it understood to this man, that I am man enough, I am enough, to brave the world so callous and tough. I will make him proud. As loud as I can. I will stand, and make him proud.