Author: Souls-and-Turkey-Cafe PM
Just a random piece I've been wanting to put up for a while now.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Words: 700 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 06-05-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2527430
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A sudden desire to put something up came over me, so I chose this. If it makes little sense, that's okay. It's just a random piece I wrote a while back. The breaks are weird 'cause the ones I had didn't show up, so oh well.
Comment if you like. I just wanted to put it up.
All these nameless people
Staring at me,
Seeing nothing but a corpse,
A fragment of reality.
I watch them now but cannot tell
If their eyes speak the truth.
Do their eyes reveal their souls,
Or do they all tell a lie?
I watch one now, a tiny child,
Eyes lit up with curiosity,
Holding hands with her mother so dear,
Unable to fear what lies ahead.
A woman now; she enters so slowly,
Head held high and shoes clacking,
Drumming out a rhythm on the old worn metal.
She sniffs so haughtily as she looks around,
Gaze roving over all and yet seeing nothing;
We're filth before her eyes.
I realize, slowly, that I know her type,
Fear her type,
And so I try so hard to hide,
But nothing presents such welcome.
It doesn't matter anyway;
She cannot touch me,
Barely sees me,
Eyes locked onto my own, seeing everything yet nothing of the future that lies ahead.
I continue to watch,
Waiting and waiting,
Countless people coming and going,
And I continue to wait,
But it was long ago I became lost.
And finally a man now comes, eyes downcast,
And yet I see the tears,
And so I wonder what life has done,
To refute the old clichéd belief that
Men should not cry.
Maybe a day of hardships? Or maybe he is ill?
I cannot know but yet I do wonder;
Why is this man who appears so strong,
Who wears a suit so neat,
This man who exudes a presence so great,
Crying on the wheels of such unlucky transport?
Weak and pathetic;
If showing sorrow and grief makes you weak
Then why do our spirits rise after we cry?
He does not look around at all,
Does not meet my eyes,
Only stares at an open palm,
A scrap of paper held inside.
I take a peek- I cannot help it.
Inside lies innocently a small photograph,
Worn smooth at the corners and yellowed with age,
A single tear resting in the side.
A photograph of a child- no, a young woman-
Bright eyes innocently staring up at me,
Seeing something that no others have seen.
I lean closer, as close as I can,
And yet still the man does not see,
Doesn't even notice me standing there beside him.
Her green eyes sparkle with life,
Lips tilted up in a smile of delight,
No hardships at all.
Yet then I see her hand held high,
Waving so innocently,
Scarred and burned and callused so deeply,
Nails broken on everything.
Her eyes like grass stare into my own,
Asking a question of me,
And I wonder how a single photograph
Could possibly see the real me.
Finally then the man does turn,
Eyes of the ocean so broken and yet clear,
His soul bared before me so simply,
Begging for something that he too sees in me.
Oceans of blue,
So familiar but alien,
Hair of straw but a remembrance of silk,
Eyes of the oceans,
Eyes of the sea, so open,
Clear and glistening,
Why do I know these?
I am faceless, I know,
And yet he sees me so clearly,
Eyes of oceans seeing what no others have dared see.
Like the photograph's hands, I look down at my own,
The skin scarred and so burned and callously left without care,
Eyes so green…
Glistening tears in an ocean of blue eyes…
And grass now meets ocean,
Green to blue,
And I whisper so softly,
Voice a long lost memory,
"Do I know you?"
To which he answers with a smile
As arms engulf me so suddenly.
And then I knew,
So clearly I wept.
It has been so long since I've waited
For my beloved son…