The calendar,

once full of marks, ideas and written

in stone defined dates, only to be broken

by the day to day,

now lies empty and blank,

like the eyes on an old man

whose skin has turned mottled grey

and the loss he feels

forgotten and alone,

frightened for the things he can

no longer see.

 

The calendar’s activities

stop abruptly, no slowing

down of a heart at play,

they just cease, they terminate

and offer no hope of a scratch mark

or thinly laid out and absurd obscure plan,

just silence, the downside

of hibernation, the stir crazy

look that develops

when writing consumes

all…

 

Ian D. Hall 2015