by Paul Tristram
With a heavy heart
in splinters.
A soul which feels
like mercury drops
falling daily into a drain.
A park bench damaged back.
A left knee he’s always
losing an argument with.
A mind that fractured
on that cold full mooned night
all of those years ago
and stayed desolate,
demented and dislocated.
With no more tears left
in his humble possession
they left along time ago
hand in hand with warmth.
A face bruised,
burnt and scarred
but with eyes alive
like I have never seen before.
Crazy, wild and brilliant
like the swirls in the sky
of a Van Gogh painting.
I shudder in respect
as he raises his fists
Heavenward
and once more
squares up
like a prize-fighter
to his aching fate.
I realize that Broken
and Beaten are two
completely different worlds.
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