He was born with searching eyes,
wrinkled and bruised, on a Saturday afternoon.
As the clock chimes, his curled fingers reach out and
they take him from what he knows.
***
Wrinkled and bruised, on a Saturday afternoon
he watches an endless white marshmallow sky;
they take him from what he knows,
their firm hands leading him on.
***
He watches an endless white marshmallow sky
His breath on the safety glass blurs the outside world.
Their firm hands leading him on,
head down, he shuffles past a collection of lost shells.
***
His breath on the safety glass blurs the outside world,
as longing crushes his chest.
Head down he shuffles past a collection of lost shells,
trying to overlook images that haunt him.
***
As longing crushes his chest
his feet drag. In the gloom he gets lost,
trying to overlook images that haunt him.
Etched in the past.
***
His feet drag. In the gloom he gets lost
by the bed. A picture – someone he knows
etched in the past;
loss whispers across the decades.
***
By the bed a picture, someone he knows.
As the clock chimes, his curled fingers reach out and
loss whispers across the decades.
He was born with searching eyes.
*******************************
If you’d like a definition of a Pantoum and an explanation on how to write your own – go here for more information.
Chronicles of Illusions 
Very clever, I’ve never tried a pantoum, but then I’m far too lazy for forms.
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Thanks Gilly. So nice to have you visit.
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