What is this joy that you speak of?

This joy that was to make life a chest of warm memories

Here I sit as part of the living

In my solace as an empty man

The wrinkles in my brow permanently etched

Where wisdom and tragedy play on the lawn as siblings

A man with no country

No home and no kin

Entering a junction with no signs to rest

On the rainiest day, I observe my face in a puddle

Where tears outline its sculpture like a river

Before drowning

In the height of dusk, I prayed that the Most-High deliver me from purgatory in my slumber

Only to be awakened by the majesty of the sun

Where I shunned its brightness and cursed its generosity

They somber skies and I belong together

For the dawn, I have tried to befriend

But we could never hit it off

Maybe it’s just me

For it makes acquaintances easy

In my youth, I found refuge in a Ouija board  

That found its way in my presence

No need to spell it out, I knew to keep it a secret

As it wanted to pull me into its abyss

And in my fear

The moon and the sun frowned upon my resistance

There I go again forsaking friendship

And my resistance is still present

But these days it’s my heart

For life gives us seasons

And how I would adore the ascendancy of Spring’s blossoms

Where her tender touch gives me life as we create our own

Though I have none to call my own

And though her love is a striving after the wind

Still I storm chase

As she prostitutes her affections to enticements and flashes of virility

And in my thoughts I can only wish to be in her afterthoughts

Taking refuge once more

And now my soul frowns at her resistance

The grave is such a gracious host

With its door always open

Making my favorite pastries

So happy to see me

Keeping my seat warm

The most reliable companion

Old faithful

But this relationship is one sided

For it only calls me when it wants something

Never to shoot the breeze

I find a moment of ease in the face of an infant

As they gaze into my soul fearlessly

Reading Me

As they are wrapped in a sanctuary of innocence

They have no say in their garments

And my ensemble

So tailor made

Fragments of pain with splashes of wizardry

Though polished, still disheveled  

For I cannot hide my gaze from passerby’s

My eyes tell the story 

Of a man in uniform assigned to guard the borders on a holiday

Without a soul in sight

Written By: Waymon Brown. Creator of theesquireproject.com. Email info@theesquireproject.com