A puddle in the street

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 4: A puddle in the street                                                                                                                

A small child of six years old that sits like a stone upon the steps he was left just gazing, to watch the sun rise above his eyes and to him, it grows brighter than himself for when he smiles at the sky. He looks to his dreams for spoken comfort, for they speak all night and whisper in his ears the rushing hour of day. The dawn has left the stars behind as they shine between his black eyes, and a bowl of fresh happiness that steams in his lap for his mouth waters at the warm sight of love. Of what love and of what sensitivity, should his face radiate the unspoken love of everything around his world.

There is no one he seeks where his unseen features are recognised by the common eye, but no matter his self –claimed curse of his unreal paradise, this world is forever his to watch over. By the throbbing of his heart and the heavy yet calm whispers of the aging trees that sway and groan mournfully to his every command. With what family that is left to bestow upon the care and affection of a young man’s heart, loneliness must kiss the child in her arms goodbye.

Beside the face and behind the mask that resides still like a candle without a flame to show its existence, and by the tree where he has found his place where the world passes by so slowly and never to glance at his vivid shadow in the shadows of their midst. The young sparrow that should be so idle in the morning has shown no desire to tire for every passing passion.

There are promises that seem to run like deep scars within his burning flesh, but if only his life was better left unexplained as everything he wishes to leave unanswered.travel and its elusive footsteps are but a few moments away from waking up to follow the signs of his fate, that stretches and crawls across the moving hills and the dusty plains.

In his hand that carries his only burden, an apple seed that would never go amiss in the false crowd of the planet, and must only his hands that should forage the muddy carcass of his beloved earth. Curiosity has played its hand, for it must grow with the life of its existence and understood and realised for the leaf will bear no fruit lest the garden of the gods have shown the world true compassion for life. In the strength of his arms, his spirit holds him close like the angel of his bare skin and the sky must part in song for one last time.

Restless winds that did play with his hair of where he stands above the mound of fresh mud, now that the wind bites him lovingly as it did yesterday and the applause is silent.