the other way around

hands numb as the pen falls
no one to pick it up for him
finally stands but is unable to move
no one is around just longing
for a kick or something
wake up from a year long sleep
starting to unravel and realizing
he might only be the beginning
creeping slowly through each day
a lonely march dark nights
hiding a darkened mind
hardened to a solid
the sympathetic words and gestures
are not quite believable
eyes frozen shut with tears
will he be able to break the ice
that hardens and keeps lids shut
warming by a fire finally
the idea to move mad him find
warmth how was he helped
something someone he cannot see
strange as sirens blare through the silence
he had found near fire and warmth
suddenly he reaches a boil and the eyes
liquefy and spill again on to the bearded face
he thinks of his brother and tired feet
and other friends that may have grown out of him
or was it the other way around…