pieces of the broken man

pieces of the broken man

dangling from string to string.

the black,

the white,

the colors in between.

pieces scattered with no meaning

time is relativity.

along the thread,

out of order,

the linear love.

once alone in a bleak, poor room

now an angel.

the present,

absent,

lingering.

in this room the pages flare

all they’ll ever do.

the coffee,

the ink,

the smell of paper.

cut to time with momma

sixteen years and counting.

momma loved,

momma died,

the memory some nights

remembered when riding a bike

when eating lunch.

crumbs,

late nights,

coming home sad.

this stays here in the atmosphere

the emptiness feels.

there was a lover,

a dog,

a home.

the chair tumbled

pieces shattered,

a vision,

a savior,

a writer.

visions of the past

he carries them with him.

future,

present,

end of the world.

rewritten and unwritten

without consent.

click,

clack,

clickety-clack!

he must finish their stories,

know how it ends.

hope

doesn’t

exist.

not for him.

but for others.

light

always shining

above.

he has no threads

of what-might-have-beens.

can’t see

through foggy

glass.

take a break,

breathing deeply.

swimming,

falling,

drowning.

running away

like he always does

no friends,

no family,

no dog.

the broken man coughs

alone in a dirty room.

the red,

the blue,

no colors in between.

living a life for others

isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.