The Man
I was waiting for a train, when I first saw The Man,
Hanging like smoke in a suit burning black,
His voice billowed out, as sweet as spoiled fruits,
Whispers of names I thought nobody knew.
He greeted me then, in the voice of my mother,
His words soft as linen and bright as the summer,
He spoke of my stories and childish conceits,
The trappings of clocks and currencies.
My eyes to the floor, I skirted each word,
Watching his shadow swallow all that I saw.
He finished his piece, and held out a hand,
As I boarded my train and didn’t look back.
Years went by before I next saw The Man,
Adorned in roses and crumbling plans,
He wept in the light of a china white moon,
Sat by the bed in the heart of my room.
He sang for me then, in the voice of my wife,
His verse a lure of lovers and lives,
A blinding rapture of glory and game:
A pillow upon which my head to lay.
Steered towards sleep, I started to see,
The shape of the ruin he drew around me.
He finished his song, and held out a hand,
As I rose from my bed and gave him my back.
On the steps of St. Pauls, I last found The Man,
Sat with my children, his head in his hands,
They took him by name but saw not the face,
That found me again, in this final place.
He spoke to me then, through the mouth of my daughter,
Words ripe with pain through blossoms of laughter,
He stripped me of all but the mantle of guest,
And took back the fear that held home in my chest.
My body laid bare, one finger placed there,
He traced out a cross, an ashen prayer.
By the grace of my children, I took that staid hand,
And lay my surrender in the arms of The Man.
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