Thursday, 17 January 2013

The Image

His hands would flap like wings whenever he told stories.

And hang semi conscious when alone.

His fingers would curl - like plastic when heated. Our fists then meet in kinship.

He alters reality, with nail’s - trimmed for flight

His palms bear the pressure of life. I hear its sound in every touch

The rustle of his next brain wave.

The grip of determination

The silence of nerves

His hands have matured - growing into the new.

Dousing the air with colours, each swerve, each strike.

The wind, hanging on for dear life

He soars – higher than he did before - my eyes

Water through its stare

His hands, would flap like wings

I call him butterfly.

Through his stories, I breathe new life.