Next Move Poem by Russell Taylor

He sits and sits eyes twitching, nervous of his next move.
Weight upon his shoulders bears no restraint; clouds beyond the skies offer no clear path,
Feeling lost yet alone, family distinguished and friends live in silence,
He is lonely in minds own violence, carefully planning exits if green tinged four leaf clover, wilts once more.
Will the tethered kite of which he dreams, fly to his aid or faded images pass on by.
Hope nurtures his warm heart, beating lightly, skipping out of time. Fingers crossed so tight, webbed palms scoop at the clean fragrant air, wiping beads of sweat from his brow
Typing he recalls past faces, long forgotten places, smiles and laughter. Poignant thoughts play host to his sacred heart.
He watches, poised fingers cross each key, looking into a screen, wondering how life could be, thinking of family now gone and no children to dance around a Christmas tree.
Still, he listens to his heavy heart, torn from this world and the next, fingers crossed, turning corners, crossing paths, trying to choose his next move.