No one told a man
To dust off his skin, in the corner.
No one scolded the man
Whose eyes blazed a stream to the future.
No one could hold a man
Who would cry in that corner
Over the faint photograph of a face
That would never grow faint in his mind.
He had told himself
That his words are the loneliness.
He would scold himself
When the dust held more weight
Than his form.
He could only hold himself
When the beauty upon the faint photograph
Needed a recapture.
No loose storm
Could fell a tear from his tightened eyes.
No noose about his neck
Could restrict the gulps of breath,
He could tell were the same as lips
Pressed to perform revival
Of his drenched heart.
No one gave this man
When the bitterness is so futile
To the gray stains from his tears
Pressed like clouds into the worn coat.