MB Hair

He took his time and then left
not so neatly rolled or folded
more like worn out, colors all bereft.
it was his, after all, to take
though others borrowed time to time
leaving moments in his wake

the gift of time he carried
in his bag of skin and bones
so that the parcel could be ferried
thought to thought, as if owned
through inference, by that piece of time
used randomly; reasons all unknown

the pulse of life apparent
in the silhouette we offer
becomes a memory inherent with
encounters caught and postured
then collected for the files
of our mental storage locker

the envelope of time we’re let
sometimes shows it’s wear and tear
when thinking on the chance we get
to bring our soul to bear
in spite of all the times we’ve bet
the universe won’t care

left alone the mark can plainly see
the space that’s almost always left behind
and wonders if that moment is what frees
itself, or does it just remind
us that our fate is in the breeze
like a kite set free, when the string unwinds

his fear of passing, not unlike the wind,
comes and goes with purpose or without
still looking for a way to help rescind
the verdict he knows hardly anything about
yet the more he knows suggests he pull the pin
when he can’t be heard unless he has to shout