Invincible

Arms outstretched in a victory as false as his pose,
Deceit spins through the air,
But is lost in the tranquillity of the sea and the absconding aromas,
Elements and senses teasing him with their freedom.

And as he stands there in a seemingly painted picture of glory unrivalled,
Voices whisper in his ears,
That his only consistent character trait is inconsistency,
That he can scale as many hills,
Receive as many cuts,
Earn as many scars,
And throw as many stones as he pleases,
But he will never be invincible.

He stands on the opposite side of the cliff now,
Overlooking the ocean,
Glimmering like gold,
Beneath the basking rays of the sun,
Which hangs like a flaming orb waiting to be blown out,
A sign of the impending climax,
To his tale of thoughtful inaction.

Friends regale him with tragic stories of time’s continuous murdering streak,
Forever unpunished,
Because the accepted wisdom is the tick-tock of all the clocks can never stop,
And that age - not even a guarantee - will occur upon hearing too many clocks.

Yet sometimes it seems time takes an age to pass,
In those moments of unheralded brooding,
In the newfound wilderness of well-worn pathways,
Holding keys to the isolation he craves daily and nightly.

And he knows he will lose all of what he breathes in now,
This unusual, unfamiliar feeling of serenity and oneness with the world,
So willing to overindulge in gossip and death and politics and scandal and all the trivialities, For which we should not have one minute to spare,

As life spins on its axis,
Not invincible either,
As the poles shift.

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