Left to his own devices, vices once applauded,
and cloistered in a hell of cinders
of cherished memories–
faux fur to the gaudy.
Thoughts once potent and sharp
drift like black snow in cane burning season;
staining, marring the whites hung out to dry.
Where have all the blue sunbirds gone?
– camouflaged in the absence of his mate,
a relic, a millstone, mislaid au fait.
Yesterday, a man to be reckoned with,
a companion with designs,
marvelled at a world unfolding,
supine in the soft, satin of his palm.
But Yesterday dissolved
in the creases that remained;
too deep to scour away,
too sorrowful to salve.
Who will help him when he's down,
when they've left him to his own?
And in the mire, man and boy merge,
a wraith in Valhalla,
abandoned by the faithful
and condemned by his patrons
(or paid too small a price).
He wanders the cross-hatched
road, in search of what he had:
a metallic blue sunbird
nesting with a sunburst twin;
and wishes only for one small thing–
someone, somewhere, listening.