Thomas Seeks Belief - edit 2

Thomas lifts his hairshirt, touches, gently,

the lesion beneath. As he stands beside the diligent bed,

hidden in the tall, thin shadows

cast by a crooked lampshade, he recalls
how his chest was once wound free.

That was when he was young, blithe,

inhabited the Tao moment,

uncluttered, free of the need for belief, the future –

a thread yet

to be woven - unhindered, unkept.

Then came the children.

Now his heart is constantly exposed, a deep gash
unable to heal - a place for all manner of things
to visit, to perch
on fleshy lips or enter and touch
the heart within.

Thomas lies in bed, bare-chested, misses
the kiss at night when his naked wife
would lie by his side. Her wound and his
shared solace as they
wondered what the children were up to.

His wife buried, children grown
into their own spasms

to navigate. In the dark, Thomas slips
his hand into the gap and touches, gently,
his own beating centre.

He stares, opened-eyed, up at the unseen
ceiling, seeks assurance, a belief
that all would be well
with his children and theirs
long after his time has been and gone.