Apart from me.
I stare outside this cold,
white-stained window frame.
Where a picture elegantly,
but not so, illustrates it’s own fickle colours
Etched into the hills so often seen,
yet seldom visited, stands a
man of average height.
Of simple taste, and moderate
aspirations. He is a tribute
to his father, and to his brethren.
His loyalty serves no purpose
other than his own self-preservation.
He gives no expression,
nor language to his body.
His words go unheard, and you may
wonder weather he is speaking at all
or if he is, to whom?
He is a man without decision nor
And against the soft winds and chilled air,
he stares blankly from a distance.
I doubt he can spot the white around this window,
or if he can even see through this tired glass.
If he can see me, at all.
He stands, like the last dieing tree in a burnt forest,
alone, and indifferent.
I’m sure that if I could see his face,
I could uncover who he truly is.
But from this side of the glass I can only see his presence,
and even that seems empty. When he smiles, he is no more than
one man surrounded by nothing.
One man who chose not to choose, and in doing so
made the worst choice of all.
A choice not to live,
a decision to back away from independence and instead fit in amongst
He stands alone,
at the foot of this hill,
which more and more looks like a mountain.
Unscalable and daunting.
he stands at it’s base without expectation.
Without aspiration, a part of me.
He chose to be the same,
and found himself alone.
Now, through this white-stained window frame,
I stare down upon him as if I,
I stare from my thrown and I question,
his motivations. His value.
I stare down at a man apart from me.
But this glass, works from either side.
And I wonder if the view is so different.
A part of me.