Alone
Hands tied together, he looked up
As if to beg for a sliver of hope
Mercy maybe to a life short lived
Looked down to see the suffering and misery
To find, the hands which were thought to be tied
Free, but crippled and incapable of reach
For the hope dangling upfront to silence the hungry mind
He sensed, though, without letting go off the inflated ego
That which tied the hands so as to hide
In the arm pit, deceiving the passersby and self
Denying much needed linkage, belonging, and meaning
Being among those who care with stretched out arms
Reaching for contact like a branch of a conifer tree
Spreading out and together growing forward…
Basked in sweet and agony, he sat upright
Upon the the realization he, too, has really become inanimate
Just growing and being, like the branch soon to be detached
Off the tree, left to rote on the ground
Where am I? He asked with no being near to respond
Even the room seemed like a grave; echoless and dark
Quiet, distant, alone; is it the essence of being, the meaning of creation?
With a sudden shock of death, he awoke again
To realize all that was just a dream, or so he thought.
He could see the old lady, gracefully aged sitting next to a son
He also heard the cry of a baby and the soothing of a mother’s sound
He felt comforted, he thought he wasn’t alone
Then, a rude awakening besets drenching him in more sweat
He was really alone, he concluded, having estranged from parents
And left his beloved now miles away; receding by the minute
Hands tied, can’t bridge the distance left behind
He awoke again, his hands reflexively reaching out and desperate
Stretched out to shake and hug; to rub and massage; to hold
“Well, hello!” the old lady sounded; “what is the matter, son?”
He could sense the roughness of a life hard-lived, and the warmth
As she held and pressed, life and hope into this inanimate vessel
He begged for this to never end, never to wake or sleep
“Thanks, mom!” He blurted out, while admiring the rising sun at the horizon.
