by Zinta Aistars
Pencil drawing by Viestarts Aistars
The stories remain there on his face,
carved into maps, thoroughfares, a webbing of days.
The beginnings that blaze trails to inevitable endings:
a childhood of ebullient dreams,
the frill of fantasy, the chimera of unjaded hopes.
Then: the tedious melancholy of the middling years—
languishing in routines and daily habits,
collapsing into eventual finish lines, race over,
all that plunging into the murky waters of chance,
a gamble of hearts, perhaps, a swilling of random jubilance,
spice to heat the many, many days
left arid with unmet goals.
But a semblance of a life he might have wished
upon a falling star. And yet, his.
Its sparkle still glistens
in his hooded eyes, jewel of memory,
all that is left him now.