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Everyman
by Luca Dombré
I see my questions lying
in a dried-up puddle by the dock
arranging the death by fate
of my last few minutes of luck.
I feel the seconds dying
in the surgical tick of the clock
never too early nor late
when time's ripe for the final knock.
I hear my sisters sighing
and my brothers crunching the crutches
of their uncertain healing
under the gigantic spell
harbored by blue for their grievance.
I turn my eyes in a burning gaze
to what turned into lies
after no transient phase.
Of bruises inside
I somehow handle the mending.
In the cage of a rhyme
I slyly pretend understanding.
But of fears and my faint tears
I do master the equivalence,
as among the two old roads
I can't tell any difference.