"Less A Poem And More Just A Thingy"
Sometimes, I see things. I can't explain it, I just do.
Depends on the song, or the sounds outside my window, or in my head.
At times I see an old man, staggering alone and lonesome down a broken road, the glittering shards of dreams gathering about his shuffling boots. His back is bent, his head is bowed, but his eyes are still fierce, still fever bright and raging. They glow in the darkness surrounding him, that wicked, wicked old thing. The whole world beats on him, but he continues shuffling, heedless of the dreams he's lost behind him. Nothing left save his principles, nothing left save what honor hasn't been withered away by life.
Other times I see a beautiful young girl, barely of an age to be a woman, in a pretty yellow sundress. She's in an alleyway, a tenement building partially bombed out behind her but the wall is still strong. This is her wall. She leans back against it and raises her sundress teasingly, completely in control, her beautiful, creamy pale skin flashing as several young boys, barely coming into their own as young men, gaze with wonder at whatever she's willing to reveal. They want her, but know not how - she can be satiated, but for now this is all she wants, all she desires from them. All four are happy with the arrangement, a shared connection, a glow suffusing them at the semi-forbidden act of revelation.
And other times I still see a broad-backed father, proud of his son newly come into his own as a man, even as his son still labors intensely. Even as his son breaks himself through the daily rigors of simply surviving. Even as his son suffers under loss and strain and his own poorly made, but accepted and survived choices. The father, too proud to cry. The son, too proud to ever return.
I know, generally speakin', what all these images mean. But sometimes it just goes through my head in random flashes, and they become significant because of that. Even though some of these scenes contain tropes that can be applied to my own august and inglorious self, they are not inexactly about me.
Sure, I can claim to be the old man, the son, the young teenagers coming into their sexuality. I can even claim to be the road and the darkness that seeks to beat down and destroy the relentless old man, the father that watches his son go through life's hardships yet can do nothing but hope, the beautiful young temptress simply basking in the plying of her craft, enjoying the attention of those around her, their eyes gracing her skin.
But I'm none of those.
Why, did you perhaps see something of yourself then? Curious.
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