His beard is the untamed forest,
a trimmed shrub on a Sunday morning,
a paintbrush plucked of its limp bristles,
chaotic lashes growing thick and spontaneous,
like moss composing on the chin of a boulder.
There’s remnant stubble on the barber’s floor,
smelling of whiskey and menthol cigarettes.
Stale cuisine remains crusted to the mane
until a fresh waterfall pays its due.
Permanent or temporary,
I find it always returns.
And yet, despite its prickly nature,
there is serenity.
It is a sanctuary where I can hide,
undisturbed and slumbering
amongst a jungle of braided grape vines.
I wash my face in the river
of his warm wool thatch,
and float peacefully
along the tress of tranquility.
No comments:
Post a Comment