Invincible

Arms outstretched in a victory as false as his pose;
deceit spins through the air but is lost in the
tranquillity of the sea and the absconding aromas,
elements and senses teasing him with their freedom.
And as he stands there in a seemingly painted
picture of glory unrivalled, voices whisper in his ears
that his only consistent character trait is inconsistency,
that he can scale as many hills, receive as many cuts,
earn as many scars and throw as many stones
as he pleases, but that he will never be invincible.

He stands on the opposite side of the cliff now,
overlooking the ocean glimmering like gold
beneath the basking rays of the sun, which hangs like
a flaming orb waiting to be blown out; a sign of the
impending climax to his tale of thoughtful inaction.
And friends regale him with tragic stories of time’s
continuous murdering streak, forever unpunished
because the accepted wisdom is the tick-tock of
all the clocks can never stop and that age - not even
a guarantee - will occur upon hearing too many clocks.

Yet sometimes it seems time takes an age to pass,
in those moments of unheralded brooding in the
newfound wilderness of well-worn pathways
holding keys to the isolation he craves daily and nightly.
And he knows he will lose all of what he breaths in now,
this unusual, unfamiliar feeling of serenity and oneness
with a world so willing to overindulge on gossip and
death and politics and scandal and all the trivialities
for which we should not have one minute to spare as life
spins on its axis, not invincible either as the poles shift.


(more thoughts from the day at the cliffs)