The old man sits in the building, silent
his brain races with thoughts of clouds
he hasn't seen the light of happiness
the tension puts pressure against his soul
the earth moves like a slow motion murder
he stares at the wrinkles on his hands
a map of experience, existence
he longs for relief from the echo
he misses the former version of a boy
lost in the storm
the angels swing on the playground in silence
he has a shovel, polished
engraved with the names of memories
the cloud seeps through the crack under the door
the string unravels
he closes his eyes, asks for peace
the clouds become a pillow
and the angels sing softly in his head
B
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