To be lost (in the Garden of Earthly Delights)

As lids close against lights on distant shores,
Wrinkles stretched to a blink.
A whimper against ill-fitting shoes and staggering,
Across the grass to nowhere... anywhere.
Seven bags held close by various limbs, weight down his thoughts,
Revolving around the battle with the day (the biting wind)
Clothes discoloured and worn, threads torn (chewed at)
And he, only an apprentice of age,
Vexed with problems too deep to tell,
If, I, you, and we - from anyone any answer on him would likely befell?

And then he stopped in front of me,
And I could do nothing but stare.



A.T.