I wished to get some phrases out of my head as we speak.
Go straightforward on me; I’ve by no means written something like this earlier than…
Constructing a person
The place as soon as, a stone of a person had stood, left now could be a damaged physique, a coronary heart no good.
A fall from a spot so secure and heat, into the depths the place solely the buzzards swarm.
Right into a darkish that nobody is aware of, a journey to the place not even sea foam blows.
The place the wind and timber don’t get to bop.
The seeds which are planted don’t stand an opportunity.
Absent of stars, moon or sky, the place odds are stacked and the wager excessive.
A hole void the place this man shouldn’t be laid out so naked for all to see.
Alone and helpless, sinking inside, reaching, gasping, no extra alive.
Calm and peace permitting to relaxation, the sand of time now not compressed.
A weight now lifted, drifting away, that is my place, and right here I need to lay.
However inside that depth lies a sound that speaks.
A drum that beats and refuses defeat.
A pulse with no rhythm that began to bop, a track with no phrases performed fully by likelihood.
A hand on my chest; whispers come, now don’t relaxation.
The individuals I really like are all put to the check.
Life being pressured, pushed and pressed, do what you’ll be able to and no matter is greatest.
Subsequent, a bolt is thrown at would possibly, thunder costs, angels they combat.
Laying declare to a physique to which they possess no proper.
The satan he hounds for his pound of flesh, should pay the tollman to get out of this mess.
Eyes begin to flutter, exhibiting indicators of a spark, misplaced within the woods, sufficient of the darkish.
Now right here lies a person manufactured from stents and stone, glass legs and twisted chest bone.
A reminiscence so damaged that it performs on repeat, a muscle repaired that struggles to beat.
Palms held out and feeling for all times, the calm of a voice, the heat of a spouse.
The storm, now settled and rumbles no extra, leaving a person washed up on the shore.
A puppet propped up, unable to face, stumbling, falling and needing your hand.
A baby once more, the world has turned, again to the beginning.
This life should be earned.
Now the sport begins with constructing a person.
The board is about, and the cube have run.
All the identical items, however by no means the identical man.
I’m a father of two boys, suffered a coronary heart assault adopted by cardiac arrest while working the Blackpool Marathon on the age of 40.