In the thin air between
the sadness and confusion,
a silver cloud with a grey lining
follows his steps like an obedient pet.
He casts no shadow beneath his pains.
He recognizes no gems among the thorn laden path.
In the hoarse breath between the fear and anger,
an orange mandala with a white core
collages itself to the vestiges of wings.
He feels not the heat that can bring comfort;
He senses no gentleness of a kind god;
He walks a path of paradox with each step.
In the shudders that rack his frail frame,
his tears commit suicide in each of their falls.
Leaving a trail of rubies, sapphires and emeralds
in his lonely slushy footfalls in the soft peat.