Not an yarn

I think quite a few of my shots here have been slightly abstract. But perhaps, none more so than this one. In case you are interested, I back blipped from here.


Anyway, now a little something for the poetry readers.

Sometimes, I seek to answers questions with my poetry, and sometimes I only seek to ask. This poem does the latter. That makes it incomplete in some ways, but complete in some others?

Puppet in the shadows

Creases, like rivers on maps,
Run across his torn hat;
Beneath, his face stands calm and uneven,
Like wind-sculpted rock...
A desolate corner of a busy street
Filled with a lonely beggar's desolation...
His ears listen to young children's stories,
And when words like hail, pour over him,
He nods and smiles.
But mostly, when violins begin to play, he cries.
Stories evaporate into clouds,
Only their footprints of emotion remain.
And bereft of his memories,
He merely becomes a puppet in the shadows.