Scattered

He
Writes
Words all across himself
Strews the alphabet painstakingly upon his skin
Lets the sentences fall from
His one ballpoint pen, a gift from a guard who needed to do some thought of good one day
This man
Sits, stands
Twists like a cyclone into any shape
Careful not to squander
His precious canvas
He gives each word, each syllable, a
Caressing attention as a mother gives a child
(He forgets what that is) 

He writes
Not as a man who needs to remember the milk
Nor as one who, bored, doodles upon their smooth skin
--Would he had that ink to waste--
But as himself, spilling his very soul onto his wrinkled, weary self
Pitch-black ink marching words the
Only thing to keep him chained and fettered here
In what may as well be Hell
He improbably longs for a staying, a purpose, a legacy
And he never goes out in the rain
He does not want to be washed away.

It's Time

Scent November in the wind, 

the darkness can envelop us now. 

Think back and further back, and 

to a different smile and a different thought 

what were 

we thinking 

and are we right now... 

Is right now right now? 

Wind swirls 

it has arrived, that certain sigh and certain caress 

and back into dim times we can hardly remember remembering

minds drift, buffeted back into the present

To the reality of retrospect and hindsight

And the warmth of today