27 cubits

In the long years
when the sun seared you
and the wind chilled,
and the lack
filled the days,
when you were throw-away,
and time played its tricks on you
when everything you tried to do
turned its back on you,
and you knew in the depths of what you were,
there stood a different view
of a man you once new
in the long years.

And time flew through the windows,
where opportunity once grew,
in the fields,
where you once played,
now
playing tricks
on you.

In the long years
where one fears to go
where they know you and
the things you do
and the wind chills
’til it fills the void,
where you once stood
and the Sun sears
burning fears instead
of stars.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.

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