Wanderless Number

I stroll past the old gnarly sycamore,
and glance up at the tangerine sky.

The wind is rather cruel this dawn,
and I'd much rather be be curled up at home with you,
but there's no longer an "us"
just "me,"
and the seasoned taste of rage that still lingers on the tip of my tongue.

Forgive me love for the feverish things I had to say,
and see it in your heart to forgive an irritable old man.

The years have never been kind to me,
and what once was precious and beautiful in my life,
has decided to flee.

I should have figured as much would happen,
for I was warned of this impending fate by an old carnival hag,
long ago.

While my parents were asleep,
brother and I snuck out of the house and rode our bicycles to the town carnival.

It was well past our bed time,
and if our father had found out,
our butts would be swollen for days.

The old hag had the traditional gypsy paraphernalia;
a beat up table cloth,
crystal ball,
jingling decor,
and enough incense to cover up any past discretion.

She read dear brothers palm,
striking his fancy.

He was fed a tale of endless fortune,
forbidden love,
and never ending happiness.

Mine, however,
was littered with loneliness.

She hadn't felt the need to sugar coat my fortune,
for I was destined to be alone.

She saw a sickness inside my soul.

A sickness I would battle with,
until death.

She explained that some people were put on this earth to be blessed for the good deeds they accomplished in a previous life.

My previous self took advantage of the good life,
and was now sentenced to an unfulfilled life in solitary.

There would be the occasional good years.

I would feel love,
the warmth from family,
and an unsettling happiness.

I never truly understood her premonitions,
until now.

I suppose the old woman was right.

Whatever sins I committed,
this life was meant to be my prison.

Any self harm would only lengthen my sentence.

So I wander,
and wait.

Wait for my ticket to be punched.