a story that told a man

A Poem by Richard

What right does a dark clad man in a candle empty room have in a position of light?

He sings to his dying flowers, but don’t be afraid, he doesn’t know everything, about night

in a world that’s round, someone said about him, beside his back, that “maybe he should write what he feels on his hand” in times square

he felt cheated out of his mind so he sat in a chair
reviewing the space between his hair

his thoughts began to flow like water
his thoughts became his daughter, not yet conceived, but detailed down to the vein in her head when she’s angry

Sometimes, when the mid-day heat melts the faucet that drips from here to there, this man learns how to walk again, learns where to go, and dives back into life

taking deep breaths of concrete with the inhalation of rain, exhaling twice, once on each train

A woman dressed in baritone grey
licking a dog
on a hill
littered with poppies and smiles of once divorced soldiers
still

YEAH he took his new found knowledge and ran back to his room
with that once excited candle now hardly in bloom
He took off his socks and burned off his rags
he said “I don’t need anything .. that’s just going to hold me down.. I’m a believer now .. in her face.. right down to her waist”

SO he took a bath as tomato juice poured from his heart
He’d used his brain as a camera and his eyes as the lens
he had no friends
he could smell paint

what color? that depends