He awakes at the stern cold of dawn's eye,
Wrestling with his thoughts, as they turn over
in his head.

He leaves the pain of the early morning,
Far off, in an unseen place, unknown to any mortal.
He prepares the tools of a time old trade
In the dusk of an evening before.
His rusted mustache rises and fall like the tides,
As he pours out the steaming fluid of ancient stories.
I listen to his faded silent jeans, as he saunters down
a narrow hallway.

His hands are nerveless, tugging and pulling
Over a mass of transparent line, transforming the heap
Into beautiful knots, resembling the work of
a skilled surgeon.

His coffee emits strong steam, and he gulps loudly,
As the scalding fluid descends down a masculine throat.
His effortless steps chime the songs of unmistakable
Joy, jeering at the strain
of a busy life.

On the water, rippling and crackling under the first sun,
He is truly free, untouched in his silent world.
The very webbed fiber that contains him
Creaks and loosens amidst the chirping of small birds,
The sweet scent of a lilac breeze,
And the lone conquest, as he baits his soul.