By Hemna Wali
As I sit on the cool iron, feeling the chill of age slip to me,
I remember when it was placed
on the side of countless lives;
painting, drying, waiting for eternity.
Heralding strokes of ambition and a plaque for honor great,
a place to carry the burden of life that was born once it was placed.
I watch the sun meet its rails,
as does the warmth of bodies,
greeting it all hours with tales as sweet and sorry.
I've seen it mull and wine,
as it drowns in ominous silences,
praying and hoping
for a hopeless sign.
I've seen its fearing figure in seasons of all kind,
not fazed by the rustic creek of joints;
it bleeds copper tears and mutely sighs.
Because now the bubble's burst,
thus it babbles and laments.
He blames his legs for sitting still
as he watched the countless lives,
moving on—away from him.