Whose there? It’s me.
The one whose shoes you’ve tried to fill, talking long strides and walks to seek cheap thrills, and the spills and the spoils of life.
Whilst you choke on those old chicken bones, mixed sickly with draft Guinness pints and stare, star gazed at racy pin-ups and push-up bras. Pushing and puffing your chest against those cold mental bars and barbs.
Presuppositions upon repetitions and cold sweats. The gritting and pulling of teeth, and clenching fists; and the flexing and stretching of arms, swelling biceps and egos alike. Struggling and scuffling with the weight and the scrapes of the corns and the callouses.
Clutching and squeezing those rugged hands as straws; ripping and picking at the dead, hard skin. How does it feel to pull at those roughhewn scabs? Peeling back those scars and inner agonies.
Encrusted with withered hurts, boyish fears and the smear of that stinking bravado.
But you’ve longed to stop and stare at my reflection. To hear the tone of my voice, and to see me as I have seen you.
So, digress from the quest of the chase, and the strength of the arm. Giving alms to the soul and a salve for the heart.
Where I will to be found, where your heaven will be my haven.