He had stopped to wonder

He had stopped to wonder

Many times

Over the course of life.

It always seemed the

Right thing to do

In a world

So full of wilful ambiguity.

But more recently

The effort to find interest

In the affairs of man

Was a bridge

Further than he was willing

To cross.

It was all he could do

To hold his gaze

When shaving.

Sometimes it felt

As though the stainless

Blade would peel

Away the weary skin

That looked so unlike

The pictures of his youth,

And reveal the truth

Of all he was

Beneath the broken

bloodied veins,

Sun dried squint

And crooked smile,

That once upon

A dream may have been

An attractive affectation.

What happened to

The promise and excitement

At the thought

Of every day?

And all that it may hold.

He had never thought to lose

The joy of wishful thinking.

Even when the future came

And went,

Leaving little left

To meet in expectation,

But he had not grown

Into his life,

Uncomfortable in his skin,

Unrecognisable

To the man he used to be.

Over the years,

Once his fruit had

Grown and ripened,

Friends had fallen away

Like cherry blossom

On a windy day,

Confetti,

Crushed beneath his feet,

Soundlessly.

Fragile petals, bruised

So thoughtlessly,

In ceaseless blunder,

Nothing left but ashes

And he scattered them long ago.

Even the bathroom mirror

Had disowned him,

All his failings, staring

Back into his face,

Demanding to be recognised.

And he knew,

There was nothing

He could do

But find the strength

To keep looking

At this strange reflection

Of what he had become

And hope one day

He would find a way

To understand

The timeliness

Of every progressive stage

And natural transition.

Maybe then he might

Accept his lot.

Or not.