he stared up into the light. It was bright, fully white and aimed directly at him. They stared at each other, both unblinking. But then lights don’t blink, do they…. unless the bulb is loose, or dying. This light was young and strong and determined not to back down. he sighed, imperceptibly, but was not bothered by the light, not really. That was his secret, the secret to victory, not to be bothered, not to care really. And he didn’t care about the light. he thought perhaps he should care, but he couldn’t muster the effort, not just now anyway.
he heard murmuring off to one side, beyond the light. Voices, human but he could not catch the words, that curious near language of the murmur.
to write a poem
well not exactly a poem
old time poets disdained free verse
and this verse has lost all sense of rhythm
it reads just like scattered prose
put in a poem-like versey sort of structure
hmmmm i thought
maybe I had better make something rhyme
i guess this last line is the right time
He walked, feeling the hard pavement meeting his soft shoes. He moved as he hadn’t since he was very young, wondering at the world about. The hard sidewalk, the cool air breathed deeply into his lungs – he did that, laughing as he coughed and shook with each cough. He smiled; he clapped his hands with the rhythm of movement. The sun chased clouds, the sort of clouds he used to draw in his childhood, smiling and dancing in the blue sky. A woman approaching frowned, and moved onto the grass by the walk, avoiding him. He smiled broadly at her and spoke: “Isn’t it a wonderful day!” She looked puzzled and a little disconcerted and hurried on, leaving him in her dust.
Reaching Stretching Straining
i can taste the sky
Life is closing in
It has me by the throat
Words are choked
They will not