my breath, like brush strokes,
painting the moon lit sky.
Is it the cold or the solitude that cuts so deep?
Hands thrust into coat pockets,
collar pulled up against the wind,
a wind that covers the sounds of a man
Tear filled eyes capturing
blurred images of a distant tree line,
hoping to see, someone…someone that knew
a man of gentle madness and rage,
all those things
that make a person who they are
…a man both tempered and tarnished
through he years.
with heavy sigh,
the images clear,
the trees, the moon
and the solitary man…painting the sky.