... (2020 - toss up II)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAxCqlU-OAo&ab_channel=TOPSIFYDanmark

.

.

.

His life carried all the telltale symptoms,

.

All the signifiers, the indicators,

.

Of one destined to be spent 

.

Lost.

.

.

His, was a lens of bleak -

.

Of lifelessness, of dense shroud

.

And porous, fading canopy.

.

.

His, was an ailment that no physician,

.

No academician, medicine man,

.

Witch doctor or shaman,

.

Could even begin to hope to cure.

.

.

His, was an anomaly -

.

An enigma -

.

Self perpetuated 

.

And mired in misapprehension.

.

.

He was gray.

.

.

His footsteps

.

Carried gray.

.

.

His vision

.

For want of color

.

Projected an enveloping hue

.

Of hoar, and numb and gray.

.

.

He was

.

For all intents and purposes

.

A skeleton, wrapped in penumbra,

.

A scarecrow, draped in rags,

.

.

An empty shell, 

.

A manikin. 

.

.

And when he took his seat -

.

A quiet seat, 

.

In the corner of an overcrowded opera house -

.

He took it in the manner that one does

.

When they've long prepared to die in it.

.

.

He sank into it;

.

He sank into it 

.

As though it were the ocean's depth,

.

As though it were topsoil 

.

Or the pestilent sheets of a deathbed.

.

.

And as he sat there

.

Staring at the curvature of his table,

.

Letting the chipped polish

.

And the grain of antique oak

.

Blur with the elasticity of his stare -

.

.

As he made way for the waitress

.

Who set his glass of vodka

.

As a charitable donation, 

.

A funeral token,

.

In honor of his mausoleum,

.

.

And as he waited, patiently,

.

For the air itself to choke him -

.

.

He noticed, for the first time,

.

As though for the first and only time,

.

Center stage - velvet curtains,

.

Satin lace and a histrionic ballet.

.

.

It had been the tone of her voice 

.

That had captured his attention,

.

The music, and her poise.

.

But it was instead - beyond his own volition -

.

The fire, that had been roaring in her eyes

.

.

That finally, took his breath away.

.

.

.

Author's Note

(draft)

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Ook, every time I see one of your titles, I'm tempted to sign on it. Just a little humor of the elderly there, but seriously, I found this to be an engrossing piece. For most of the poem, you describe a man straight out of a Kafka story, then in the last two verses you portray something that sounds like a Road to Damascus experience triggered by a fiery female dancer. What I want to know is whether in the end her panache was something of a CPR jolt to him, or it sent the poor soul into cardiac arrest.

[Ookpik]

That is very high praise John, Kafka is one of my favorites and metamorphosis was one of the first real classics I'd ever picked up. And as to the ending I couldn't really tell you - I wasn't sure how best to finish it, and thought that the reader, and the reader's own experience might better end it for me

Thank you very much John, for stopping by again and for your thoughts - 'sign on the dotted line' broke one hell of a grin

For the elderly, your wit is still too sharp to mistake - from what I've learned, that's a damn good sign ;)

Wishing you all the best in the coming holidays,

-Ook