Resurrection
His knees and hands
fall to the ground.
Stained with grass.
He wears his body
of thirty-three years
like a wooden coat.
Where he’s going
- there’s no knowing.
Lavender streams
flood the riverbanks
of his eyes.
His breathe
thin as a needle
thread with silk.
Sinking and resurfacing
like his surfboard
- stitching the seams
between water and air.
Heat rises
from his golden crown
- a desert’s
evening mist.
Tension dissolves
with a single sigh
- he’s gone,
completely gone.
Heaving with fright
I grab for his feet
- the desperate clutch
of “First Love”.
My anxious ear
presses, pleads
to hear the pulse
of passion return.
Too young to believe
there will ever be
another “First”
- of anything.
Where the rumble
of tides
once swelled
- only the echo
of my breath.
Every blade of grass
has dulled.
His leaving
sharpens
the edge
of every now.
Swift as a falling hammer
the whump of life
resounds.
He lifts his head
resurrects a smile
and from the shores
of his far-reaching gaze
- a fearless sun slowly rises.
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